


Time Will Not Unwind

by alekth



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Friendship/Love, Justice Positive, M/M, Mage Rebellion, POV Multiple, Pro-Mage, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 203,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7121233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekth/pseuds/alekth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray Trevelyan awoke with his friends dead and his mission pointless. Were it not so, he might have cared about waking up surrounded by templars and close to being charged of committing the Third Sin. He had to start caring sooner or later, lest his path be decided by someone else once again.</p><p>Filling in the gaps between mostly canon events for a rebel mage playthrough. Title is from Maryden's song <em>Enchanters</em>, deduced timeline from Sandal's diary in Trespasser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those wanting to put a face to Ray Trevelyan, here are some [screenshots](http://imgur.com/a/dfjcd).

2 Kingsway, 9:41

Cassandra and her companions were half a day away from the Conclave when the air started vibrating with a distant thundering hum. She raised her hand, bidding the group to a halt and tried to determine where the thudding sound was coming from. They were squeezed between mountains and there was nowhere to hide from an avalanche. The horse underneath her was nervous, hooves threading uneasily in the same spot. Cassandra’s hand instinctively slid to pat the animal while she was scanning the snow-covered ridges around them. The weather was clear and the sun was still high in the sky, shining blindingly over the snow. She raised her shield trying to block some of the glare, and directed her eyes towards the mountains behind which the Conclave lay. There was a faint green reflection against the snow, she thought. After a few seconds the brash light had her seeing colored spots everywhere, and everything had gone quiet again. Cassandra let her eyelids fall almost all the way down, only a fraction of the light coming through. When she opened them to look again, the green glow was still there, weak but clearer than it had been before. Worry wormed its way into her heart, telling her something had gone wrong. Before she had time to scold herself for this rash judgment, a spiraling pillar erupted from where the faint glimmer had been, and amids a shaking thunder soared up in a snowy cloud that turned green and crackled with lightning.

The horses neighed in panic and scared whispers and prayers came from behind her. The Seeker was holding onto her steed steadily, but somewhere to the side she saw Varric groaning on the ground. The pillar in the distance was swirling and growing thicker, and she was too far away to get there before it had managed to swallow everything. Whatever magic that was, the templars at the conclave hadn’t managed to suppress it, and people were in danger.

“Cullen, take the lead, I’m riding ahead.” She spurred her horse, leaving the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall to take care of the dwarf and the templars they had with them. The road was well-trodden from the procession that had made it to the Conclave for the negotiations, and with most of the group walking on foot, her steed had been well rested and ready to lurch into an unrelenting gallop. Cassandra leaned forward, gritting her teeth. If something had happened to the Divine… to Leliana, to Regalyan. Damn the dwarf, the sea, the rogue mages and templars. She should have been at the Conclave much sooner and now something was happening, with her miles away, able only to watch and fret. Every couple of seconds she looked up, only to see clouds gathering where the pillar pierced the sky, everything submerged in the ominous green light. Some miles later, the horse started slowing down. Cassandra dug her heels in and the animal grunted in confused pain. She wasn’t used to such treatment, but Cassandra could only spare her a stray thought. Much more was at stake and she had to make it.

When she came to a wide turn on the road, she dove into the nearby grove. The path was narrow, but the hill wasn’t as steep as to discourage from the shortcut. She led her steed into a controlled canter, giving her some chance for respite, but still pushing too hard for this to keep up for long. The trees obstructed the view from all sides, branches hanging low and heavy with snow. It had been painful to watch the green pillar and not know what was going on, but having even that sight denied was much worse. How wide could it get, how much would be swallowed in its magic? She had never seen the kind of magic before, which made the ordeal even worse. She didn’t want to think of what it meant if the pillar was coming from the Conclave, but she knew that was the most likely scenario. There were hundreds of mages inside of it, was the whole thing a trap, a coup? But if so, were they alive, and were others alive? Was the Divine being held hostage in the eye of the green storm? The thought of a mass blood ritual in the style of ancient Tevinter was chilling to the bone. Wasn’t it peace that people wanted after all the bloodshed?

The horse flew out of the forest and onto the road, and Cassandra reined her in, looking up. The pillar had lifted, seeping into the sky. This didn’t look like a barrier. It was worry and relief in one, the threat retreating, but leaving unknown devastation beneath. She saw a house some distance further in, and gently but surely spurred her steed again. The animal complied but Cassandra could see she wouldn’t make it much farther. Minutes later she jumped down in front of the house and banged on the door before opening it and stepping in.

“Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine,” her voice was steady and authoritative despite the panic creeping up. A family of five was huddling in the room, fear and tears on their faces. It was no use asking them about what had happened, they were too far from it to know, and too scared to even think. “I need a horse, on behalf of the Divine.” One of the children started crying with shrill wails, and nobody moved. “Now!” Cassandra yelled louder than the child and the woman of the house jumped up, stumbling ahead and bowing at the same time. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Cassandra ran out and unsaddled her horse with practiced speed. The woman was leading a sturdy Ferelden forder from the adjacent stables. The seeker equipped the horse quickly and without saying a word, nodded towards her tired steed, thanked and raced ahead. The pillar had disappeared completely by now, only some green clouds remaining in the sky. Twenty minutes, perhaps less, and she could be there. The forder was if not enthusiastic, at least responsive enough. The road was leading steadily up and when she stood at the edge of the pocket which housed the village of Haven, she saw across the distance what remained of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, flames lingering in the crumbles. A soft green light was still seeping from the inside. In the village beneath her, and around it, people were running to and fro without a visible order to them. The sun sparked a reflection when it fell on metal here and there, so some of those people had to be soldiers. She began a quick descent, the horse growing stubborn at the downward slope, and the panicked voices became clearer and clearer. Her gaze remained turned to the temple on top of the hill, until the steep path gradually hid it from view.

She rode close to the village and the first soldier that laid eyes on her stopped and saluted. Her face was smeared black with sooth, eyes bloodshot from smoke.

“Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine. What happened here, report!” Relief and fear were mixed on the face of the soldier, who took a couple of breaths to find her voice.

“Yes, Your Grace. A huge explosion at the Conclave,” her voice wavered “some sort of magic explosion… it’s still there, Your Grace.”

“Still there? The magic, or mages? Has anyone found the Divine?” Cassandra didn’t want to ask about the Divine’s body.

“No trace of Most Holy, your Grace. No mages at the site, it’s a glowing… something.” The voice was quiet. “They say they found one survivor, we are looking for more, but…” Cassandra exhaled softly, telling herself that she needed to be calm, that she had been expecting this. “We are looking, Your Grace,” the woman repeated, then stood still, awaiting orders.

“Was the Left Hand at the Conclave?” Leliana had sent a bird saying that she’d also been delayed, but one never knew how fast the Nightingale could fly. They had split at Jader, and Cassandra had expected Leliana to arrive first.

“No, Your Grace. She hasn’t arrived yet, but some of her scouts came here after the explosion.”

“Get the villagers in their houses and the Chantry, don’t allow them up to the temple. We don’t know if this is over yet. Clean up room in the Chantry and have the sisters ready to take over the wounded.”

“Yes, Your Grace, right away.”

Cassandra rode to the foot of the path leading up, and decided that she’d be no better on horseback than on foot. A scout passed her coming down and stopped upon recognizing her.

“Lady Cassandra, thank the Maker you’re here. It’s a horrible sight, the temple is.” She knew Leliana’s agents were used to some gnarly sights, and still this one’s face was ashen, eyes vacant.

“Alert me once Leliana gets here,” the scout nodded and hurried down while Cassandra quickened her steps up. Her body was starting to succumb to the shock little by little. Jaws had fallen lax and she only noticed that when the cold air had her lungs burning and steps slowing. Her eyes were stinging from the wind that blew snow from the ground and into her face. Snow and ash. Preparing for the truth to come. Most Holy was dead, Regalyan was dead. Everyone who could make a difference in the raging war between mages and templars was dead. She hadn’t been on time and had failed to protect Justinia. She had to accept it and do something about all this. Hawke was lost in the wind and Leliana hadn’t been able to reach Amell either. Did that still matter, could they still follow Justinia’s orders? Who were they going to attempt rallying behind the heroes they had failed to reach? Whose hand was behind the explosion and what was it aiming for?

Cassandra was breathing heavily by the time she stepped on even ground and took in the sight in front of her. It dawned on her that she had missed seeing soldiers carrying any wounded down the path, and before her lay the answer. Amids the torn walls of the ridges fencing the road to the temple entrance, she saw the first corpses, glowing weakly while turning to cinder. She blinked incredulously, then ran ahead to what remained of the temple. There hadn’t been many debris at the foot of the rising, and few were scattered around the temple itself. There weren’t as many corpses either, certainly not hundreds. Cassandra looked around, dread squeezing her throat. She realized the ash she was walking on wasn’t ash from the sporadic fires. Most of what had been at the temple, most of the people, had been pulverized, their ashes at her feet. Most walls had been turned into rubble. Clutching the hilt of her sword, she walked ahead. Some soldiers were walking around, looking for survivors, but it was an effort merely there to fill time. The thicker walls had remained standing a couple of feet above the ground, serving only to shelter disfigured corpses from disintegrating. Some stairs remained as well, but everything above her head was simply missing. One side had almost fully caved in, jagged stony edges sticking from the ground. Between the rubble and ash glistened red crystals and that awakened a vague memory that was pushed to the side once she turned a corner. The air was crackling with magic that flowed to and from where a statue of Andraste had been. The upper half of the statue was missing now, some stony pieces suspended in the air. It was the Veil, Cassandra realized. It was so thin here that the Fade was infusing the surroundings with its magic. The space around the statue was twirling and twisting, and that was where the green glow was permeating from. For the first time in what felt like forever Cassandra looked up to the sky. The green clouds were still there, right above her, as if a reflection of the pulsating presence in front of her. She walked around it, a green film that was undulating and shifting from firm to transparent and back.

It looked menacing, but she still didn’t know what it was. The devastation around her suggested that nobody who had seen it appear had survived to offer any explanation. Suddenly it pulsed violently before retracting again. A soldier yelled something, pointing up, and she turned her eyes to the green cloud again. It stood there like it had been before. She turned to the soldier and asked what he had seen.

“It… breathed, Your Grace. Like a breath, it grew larger and then drew back.” Could it really be a reflection? Cassandra narrowed her eyes and observed the clouds again. Maybe it was larger now, but it was hard to tell. It was just… light. It was brighter around the center, but it didn’t seem to be moving like the green air in the hall. “We haven’t found any other survivors, Your Grace. There are few collapsed walls, we checked for people buried underneath, but it’s just the one man.” The soldier’s words pulled her out of her thoughts, and her gaze from the sky.

“Who is this man, do we know? Was he at the edge of the road, blown away by the explosion?” She hadn’t paid much attention at the time because she had expected a lot more people to be pulled out eventually. But after seeing what was left of the temple and those in and around it, a survivor was almost a miracle, and the vaguest of witness accounts was better than nothing at all.

“No, Your Grace. They brought him out of right here. Something about a woman behind him, but there was no woman. Brought him down to the village, he looked dead, but wasn’t burned or anything when they passed me by.” Cassandra was taken over by a feeling of looming horror. All of her worst fears returned. She had to make it to the village at once. If this man was a mage, he was the one behind all of this. A mass sacrifice, a thinning Veil, the Fade flowing forth. She commanded to clear up from the temple, and took off in a run.

Running down the snowy path took her only a fraction of the time she had spent climbing up, and when she didn’t see the horse anywhere, she continued running to Haven, fueled by rage and fear. Approaching, she saw that the panic there was as big, if not bigger, as when she had first arrived. There was yelling and screaming, and the soldiers were gone. She spotted quite a few of Leliana’s scouts working on calming people down, but mostly everybody seemed to have lost their minds. One of the scouts spotted her and approached running.

“Lady Cassandra, Sister Nightingale arrived some minutes ago. She went to the Chantry, and made it through the crowd, but now they are raging even more, it’s a riot.”

“What is going on, what caused this?” She could see that the doors to the chantry were closed, but they wouldn’t hold back a crowd like this for long. The soldiers were probably in front of them, trying to rein people in.

“One of the sisters, Your Grace. She was tending to the survivor, and then just started screaming, they say, completely lost it. ‘Demon’ and the likes. Some say he was glowing green like the pillar and the clouds, and then there was more yelling. If they want him dead, the soldiers aren’t going to be able to avoid bloodshed for much longer.”

Cassandra nodded. “Do you have a horse?” If she were to disperse the crowd, she’d have to be visible. The yelling was too loud for her voice alone to overcome it. The scout ran to some trees and returned not two minutes later with a saddled steed. Cassandra mounted the horse, strapped her shield to her forearm and drew her sword. Throwing a glance at the crowd, she realized that if this wasn’t stopped now, it could escalate into something very ugly. These people weren’t just villagers, there were pilgrims come to observe the Conclave, among them quite a few mages, and even some templars. If they didn’t get to the survivor, the next step would be to get at each other’s throats.

“People of Haven!” She yelled and cut in with the horse where the crowd was at its thinnest. Some noticed her, some drew back because of the horse, or maybe her sword, but the multitude ahead was still raging. “I am Seeker of Truth, Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of Divine Justinia!” Some more turned to her and she slowly made her way towards the Chantry, yelling the same words over and over again. She wondered if Leliana had jumped over people’s heads. Finally she was close enough to the doors to see two dozens soldiers standing with their shields raised and pushing people back. She shouted her name and title again, and the crowd was finally quiet enough to hear the rest.

“If this man is responsible for all this death, I promise you he shall pay with his life! But we need him alive for questioning first. Go back to your families and friends and pray to the Maker and Andraste to guide us in this darkest of hours!” The crowd was mumbling and thinning out, but many stood still, refusing to move. “Do not bring more grief and chaos! Go!” She raised her sword and gave the determined ones a threatening look. Unhappy and unsatisfied as they might have been, most turned back and cleared the space in front of the Chantry, stopping to stare at her from afar. Cassandra sighed and dismounted, and walked through the soldiers who made room and pushed the doors for her to enter. As soon as the doors opened, a few sisters ran past her, muttering prayers. She looked around the empty hallway of the Chantry, then closed the heavy doors herself.

From behind a pillar at the back a scout emerged. She pointed at the closed room straight ahead and Cassandra went through. Inside of it, another scout was quietly talking to Leliana, but shut up immediately upon her entering the room. They were alone with the survivor, who was laid out on the massive table in the middle of the room. Cassandra saw the green around his left hand as soon as her eyes fell upon him, and felt like driving her sword through his heart there and then. But they needed him alive and awake first, that much was true.

“Cassandra,” Leliana spoke. “What do you make of this?”

“The Divine…” Cassandra swallowed. “What are we going to do now?” The spymaster looked haunted for a few moments, but then her mask slipped back on.

“We have to find out what happened. Someone did this, maybe him,” she looked at the unconscious survivor. “We cannot let this fall apart any further than it already has.”

“I was at the temple just now,” the Seeker’s voice was seeping with anger. “The Veil has been thinned, likely by the massacre… the sacrifice that happened there. Traces of the green pillar also remain, the same green light as on his hand. He is a mage, isn’t he?”

Leliana sighed and took a ring from the table. “Yes, he was wearing this.” She held up a Harrowing ring.

“Then it was him who caused this. What kept him alive?”

“I don’t know how truly alive he is. But he might have been… elsewhere when the explosion occurred. The soldiers who found him say he wasn’t there at first. They had been looking through the hall for survivors for some time already when the green light split open and he walked through, immediately falling unconscious. They also say there was a shining silhouette of a woman behind him, but one never walked out after him. Then the light dimmed again and he was just… there. The sisters haven’t been able to wake him up, although he appears to be unharmed.”

“He was… do you mean to say he was in the Fade? Came out of it physically?” Cassandra bit her lip. This was even closer to the worst scenario she had pictured. The last time mages had walked through the Fade physically, the Golden City had been tainted and darkspawn appeared crawling upon the world. But that would explain how he was unscathed in the middle of an explosion that had incinerated everyone caught in the blast. Could a rebel mage really do that though? Or was he like the magisters of old, carrying forbidden magic from Tevinter?

“Who is he, did he have anything else on him?” Leliana had undoubtedly already been though his things. The spymaster looked down at the table.

“One more ring, enough gold to travel more than comfortably, and a family crest. I don’t recognize it, Josie should be here tomorrow. It’s on a book… the one that likely had the sisters shrieking.” Leliana pointed to a book fastened to the right side of his belt. “It has some spell on it, very unpleasant to the touch.”

“Is it blood magic?” Cassandra looked at the scout with some reservation, but Leliana seemed unconcerned.

“I have never seen her cast anything like that, least of all while unconscious. And manipulation was… direct, not by means of an object. But it might be possible. Care to give it a try, I have a theory?” That wouldn’t have been Cassandra’s first impulse, but the worst that could happen seemed to be getting scared. And if it were truly mind control by blood magic, it shouldn’t work on her. Leliana continued. “I tried holding his hand on it at the same time, as well as wearing a gauntlet, but the spell still fires, given a few seconds.”

Cassandra sighed and went to Leliana’s side. The book looked harmless enough, and did have a crest on it, a horse with some heraldry around it. It was overlaid with a white metal, looping in ornamental branches until it reached the hoops that fastened to the belt. Whoever this man was, he didn’t seem like a mage on the run. She reached with her fingers and cautiously touched the book. For a few seconds it seemed like nothing was happening, only her worry growing, which wasn’t anything unusual today. She attempted to spread the covers of the book even so slightly, but some force was keeping them firmly shut. Then terror slammed into her mind with full force, a splatter of blood and a petrifying cry, a vision imagined many times coming forth as clear as reality. She heard a yell, her own, she realized, and stepped back. When her eyes focused again, Leliana was looking at her with anxiety. “What did you see?”

“Anthony…” her voice was dull. Leliana nodded.

“It was darkspawn for me. Makes us think of something horrible.” Leliana stared down at the mage, and Cassandra turned her own gaze down. The green light around his hand had almost disappeared, only a faint green glimmer remaining. She focused on the rest of the mage.

“Do you think he’s a Tevinter? He looks neither like a Circle mage nor like a rebel one.” His clothes were fairly plain, nothing like those of the Imperium, but they were well made, and from good leather and lush fabric. Not Fereldan, although quite similar, but overall looser. There was a certain naval influence to them, like those of some of the coastal states in the Free Marches. The man himself was perhaps twenty-five to thirty years of age, and looked in good shape despite his current state of full stillness. A few long black strands of hair had fallen around his face, the rest was gathered in a short loose braid over his right shoulder. A twisted branch ran through the braid, with some dark-green leaves that still looked alive. The man looked enough like a noble to justify the crest, in fact. But the Imperium was the only place where mages could be nobles. Cassandra pushed up his sleeves as far as they would go, and didn’t see any scars from cutting.

“That seems unlikely if he wanted to blend in. It is more like he wanted to stand out. A Tevinter infiltrator would have a much easier time sneaking in as a rebel mage of little significance, especially if in the possession of a Harrowing ring. He’s also quite pale for a northerner, the sunburn on his face is recent. Overall more befitting of a Circle mage who didn’t venture out much. Maybe even a loyalist, some stayed in their towers. Hopefully Josie will know more about the crest. And then there is this…”

The green light was bright on the man’s hand once again, minute sparks crackling around it. Cassandra held him by the shoulders and shook with force. His body was complete dead-weight. So much that she took off her glove and pressed two fingers to the the man’s throat. The pulse was there and it was stable. She spoke decisively.

“We can’t keep him I the middle of the chantry, Leliana. People will go berserk, they already are. There are enough mages out there to turn this place into a burning inferno should the unrest grow, and it’s most certain to do so with him in plain sight.”

Haven’s prison had likely never seen more than drunk overenthusiastic pilgrims and petty thieves. It was built in re-purposed niches in one of the tunnels sprawling underneath the village. They would have to wait until dusk to move the mage out of the chantry, and Cassandra went outside to see what people they had at their disposal. It was mostly soldiers who had been guarding the road and the village, and some templars put in place to keep mages from causing trouble. There were a few sergeants commanding the soldiers, but the templars seemed to be on their own, free to roam. They had stayed loyal to the Divine, but with her gone their presence could backfire just as badly as the mages’, so she decided to put them under Cullen’s command as soon as he arrived. If the mage were to wake up, they might be needed around him as well. She sent one that looked sufficiently calm to Leliana, but he came back minutes later to report that his help with watching the mage had been declined. There was food in abundance at least, the village was prepared for hundreds of people negotiating for days. If nothing else, that should keep people from going completely out of control. The worrying thing was that the green cloud in the sky seemed to have grown. It wasn’t by much, but the light in the middle appeared larger and brighter now. Cassandra walked to the temple again, but nothing had changed there. Without the soldiers shouting, the place was plunged into deathly silence, befitting the devastation that it had witnessed. She found more of the red crystals and realized it was the red lyrium that Varric had spoken of, all that remained of Knight-Commander Meredith.

When the autumn sun disappeared behind the mountain peaks Cassandra made her way back to the chantry. The sisters were still outside, a couple of soldiers guarding the place and scouts scattered around to catch and report to Leliana any news and gossip. One of them approached Cassandra and said in a low voice that they were ready to move, if she was. There were still plenty of people around, but as if by a signal calls to dinner were coming from all sides and the torches moved to another clearing. Someone ran in and started sharing exciting gossip getting even more people to clear the path. Leliana was nothing if not thorough. Cassandra went in and saw the mage already lying on a stretcher in the chantry hallway, with the spymaster standing in wait. This wouldn’t buy them more than a day, but it was better than nothing. Cullen and the others hadn’t appeared yet, and a scout was riding ahead to meet Josephine Montilyet. Most of the mages had disappeared. Apparently the bulk of them had pulled away even before Cassandra had arrived.

They left through a side door and moved quickly and in silence, a templar and a few soldiers already sent ahead to wait. The mage was as motionless as ever, but as a scout was preparing to throw a blanket over him, Cassandra noticed that his book was missing. The green light on his hand was flaring again, and so was the cloud in the sky. Cassandra had seen mages deep in sleep while in the Fade before, and feared that this was what she was witnessing here as well, a mage controlling magic in his sleep. It had to be something more than that however, since try as they may, they hadn’t been able to wake him up.

The prison cells were emptied of a few men still hungover after a drunken fight in the tavern the previous night. If anyone else should need imprisonment, they’d have to find another place to stay, Cassandra wasn’t taking any risks. They placed the mage on a cot in one of the cells and Cassandra shuddered. The place wasn’t freezing, but it was still fairly cold, perhaps too cold for someone who was at the very least deep in sleep. A few cinders were still glowing in the remains of a fire lit in the cleaning before the niches turned cells, but it was far enough to only be really appreciated by the guards. She placed two of the soldiers on the outside of the wooden door of the prison, two more as far from the mage’s cell as they could go without being pushed into the empty one behind them, and the templar ended up actually sharing a cell with the prisoner to tend to a fire.

“Why aren’t there any runed shackles in Haven with all the mages who weren’t at the Conclave scattered around the place?”

The templar shrugged, expression hidden behind his helmet. “The way the fights have been going the last couple of months, nobody’s taking prisoners.”

“You aren’t allowed to kill him,” Cassandra said sternly. “We need him alive. If he wakes up, one of you,” she looked at the solders, “come notify me immediately. And you, “she turned back to the templar, “suppress him for as long as you need to get out of the cell and lock the door.” The templar accepted the order without defiance.

Cassandra looked around the cell one last time. It wasn’t a cell fit for a mage either way, and neither was it a cell for dangerous criminals. Hopefully this one wouldn’t wake up and walk away, leaving bent bars and cindered corpses behind. And that would be the result of a fairly conventional mage. Cassandra had once seen a Negation mage turn templars into dust within seconds, together with their armor. No staff and even regular shackles should make this one weaker, but never safe enough. She wasn’t discounting blood magic yet either. That the mage had no scars of his own didn’t guarantee he hadn’t drained many of their blood.

“None of the mages in the village are healers, and I doubt I can convince one of the sisters to look after him. There is an alchemist, he will be in charge of checking on the prisoner’s vitals and administering medicine, if deemed necessary. You are to protect him before you protect yourself.”

She returned to Leliana and tried purging the spells on the book, unsuccessfully. It could be a spirit bound to a rune, a practice that had become more common as of late even outside of Nevarra, but it could be blood magic just as well. Leliana was staring into the flame of a candle, face made of stone. Cullen had sent one of his men ahead, and the group was going to make it into the village soon.

The green light in the sky had grown, there was no more doubt about it. They had started calling it the Breach, and for hours nobody dared to suggest exactly what was on the other side of it. Then people started coming to Haven, fleeing from their homes and talking about demons. Cassandra closed her eyes. A mage had torn the Veil and walked the Fade.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions [Aileas Amell](http://imgur.com/a/rRzx0), who is Leliana's lover from DA:O. She is canonically not present for most of the happenings, so an actual meeting and headcanon for the cure will only come much later. Also, the game eventually focuses on the Orlesian Wardens, and with Alistair still around, the Fereldan ones being a complete mystery doesn't spin a very coherent narrative, so I have opted to make this about the Orlesian from the start.

3 Kingsway, 9:41  
  
Leliana lowered her quill. There simply wasn’t much to write about the Breach in the sky. It was growing by the hour, occasionally pulsating wildly and throwing out a few debris and demons before going back to its former simmering malice. Some of the debris had torn smaller breaches where they had fallen, from which yet more raging demons would emerge and attack whatever was in their way. The people of Haven had barricaded themselves in the village, those living outside of it abandoning everything to save their lives. Cullen had organized whatever capable soldiers, templars and even mages there were around to fight the demons, but it was a never-ending battle with more pouring out over and over again.  
  
The captive mage hadn’t awoken throughout the night and the early morning, but slightly before noon he had come out of his motionless suspended death. Since then his condition had been that of someone in profound shock - unresponsive and sweating, pupils dilated. Nothing they tried would wake him up or bring him any closer to consciousness. Mutiny was brewing in Haven once again, the looming calamity making those who hadn’t locked themselves up in fear look for a someone to punish, in hopes that it would all go away. If only it were that simple. Even Cassandra was getting less and less willing to wait. Leliana sighed and folded up the notes to the Mages’ Collective and the Imperial Court enchanter. If neither of them was able to come up with a solution, they were all doomed.  
  
A scout broke her out of her thoughts.  
  
“Sister Leliana, there is an elven apostate wishing to talk to the people in charge. Says he might be able to help with the Breach.”  
  


* * *

  
The elven apostate - Solas, turned out to be as much of an apostate as one could get these days, with all mages being basically apostates. He wasn’t Dalish and he hadn’t been part of a Circle. He occasionally broke into a strangely rhythmical speech that felt like a song to Leliana’s bard senses, and appeared to know what he was talking about. His observations coincided with those of Cassandra, despite him not having seen what lay in the middle of the temple of Sacred Ashes, at least to anyone’s knowledge, and his explanations made some sense. More importantly, he suspected that the survivor’s mark, word of which had already apparently spread, could be used to close the rifts, and perhaps the Breach. The apostate requested permission to examine it.  
  
As desperate as they were, this mage could be just about anyone, including an accomplice. He had willingly surrendered his staff, but that didn’t make a mage harmless, especially not a powerful one. He had to be investigated if he were to be allowed near the prisoner. Leliana scrawled a quick order to check on the elf’s recent whereabouts and handed it to a scout. When the conversation veered from the matter of the Breach and the Fade, the man was evasive. The village he was from lay Maker knows where, and she didn’t have the people or time to look for it and question villagers. A scout entered and handed her a note. Josie had arrived. Leliana bid Solas to wait in the village for a little longer, and ran out to meet her friend.  
  
Josephine was trembling, despite the thick cloak around her shoulders. She hadn’t been a personal friend to Justinia, but she could tell what this tragedy would do to any peace talks in Thedas, especially now that Orlais was in the midst of a civil war. Since Leliana didn’t want her own despair to become Josephine’s main concern, she put on a brave front and took the Antivan diplomat into the chantry building, telling her in a few words about their mage suspect. She had placed his belongings on a tray, to which she led Josephine.  
  
“This is everything he had on him. Careful with the book, don’t touch it. Do you recognize the crest?”  
  
“The Trevelyan crest, one of the oldest houses in Ostwick. They mostly concern themselves with tolling and trading, using their connections across northern Thedas for the latter. The Montilyets have dealt with them as well. Why a mage would carry the crest though, I don’t know. Even if he is a relative, like everywhere else outside of the Imperium, mages are stripped of their birthright in Ostwick. If you could get some people to unload the crates from my wagon, I have nobility indices I can go through, maybe we can find out who he is.” The only list of participants in the Conclave they had was that of the clerics themselves. Neither mages nor templars led formal correspondence with the Chantry.  
  
Ostwick, Hossberg and one of the Antivan circles had repelled the templars and taken over their Circle towers once news of the White Spire had spread in the early winter of 9:40. The Antivan mages had eventually left, cut off from most supplies. They had been fairly close to the Tevinter border, and whoever had made it through, likely was not coming back. Hossberg had immediately called on Weisshaupt, and the First Warden was sheltering both mages and templars who didn’t want to fight, waiting on the conflict to resolve before he took sides. Amell had also said that nobody was being forced to go through the Joining in the meantime. Kinloch Hold had stood its shaky grounds, and returned to an almost free existence after a couple of months. Not only had Their Majesties supported the mages, but so had the population. Even the templars remembered the Blight.  
  
The Ostwick Circle had maintained firm neutrality until the events at the White Spire, keeping its reputation for a disciplined and fairly sedate place. Then, one day the Divine had gotten a letter from the Ostwick Chantry that the mages had taken the Circle. Leliana had still been at Andoral’s Reach at the time, and hadn’t kept up with the immediate happenings. By the time she’d made it back to Val Royeaux, the rebellion had turned into open warfare, and little thought had been spared on Ostwick. People weren’t getting slaughtered there, at least not in high enough numbers to register on the map.  
  
“Could the mages be working together with Ostwick’s nobility, with him some sort of ambassador to the Conclave?”  
  
“The Trevelyans are pretty close to the Chantry, not the most obvious house to ally with mages. Still, with King Alistair extending an invitation to the mages, others might have followed. Maybe it would have helped, at the Conclave…” Josephine’s voice faded out into a powerless sigh. “You *are* going to declare the Inquisition, aren’t you?”  
  
Leliana sighed as well. “I don’t know, Josie. I don’t know how many days we have left of this world even. We are more in need of the Inquisition than we ever thought we could be, but with a hole in the sky we might not be able to do anything.” Her brows furrowed. “We might have a lead now, if it can be trusted. If there is a way to deal with the Breach, we will declare the Inquisition reborn. Word is already coming of the conflict between mages and templars intensifying again, with the Conclave destroyed.”  
  
Josephine nodded. “Then I will get settled and look into what I have on the Trevelyans, and on happenings in Ostwick. There ought to be enough in the chronicles, although I have none for the last few months. If all else fails, at the very least I can write to the nobles and mayors around us to send help. My carriage was nearly attacked by demons on the way here, thank the Maker we had just changed the horses.”  
  


* * *

  
Leliana sent a scout to try to get hold of Cullen, waited until she was alone, and knelt. Prayer didn’t come easy to her these days. She could feel her faith slipping, but if she were to lose it now, she’d be weaker for it, that much she knew. So she pushed herself, thanking the Maker that she hadn’t been able to reach Amell in time for her to be here. There didn’t seem to be anything else to be thankful for right now.  
  
Aileas had been harsh about Justinia’s actions in the months after the Kirkwall explosion. Too slow, too indecisive, too unwilling to upset the rest. That coming from someone who had put a sword through an Archdemon’s skull had made her wonder just how decisive she expected Justinia to be. “Justinia knows a war with the mages is coming, we are doing what we can to avert it,” she had said back, somewhat frustrated. Aileas had laughed and bluntly told her that that whatever sympathies Justinia had for mages, many of them weren’t feeling, and that they wouldn’t listen to her. The war had come, with Justinia unable to override many of the sanctions placed on mages in the months preceding it. They lost the mages, and whatever desire for compromise there was, lost them the templars and the Seekers. Everything descended into chaos.  
  
By that time they had been communicating by letters for several months. Aileas had been going between Soldier’s Peak, where Avernus was still doing whatever it was that he was doing, and Tevinter, where she scoured library after library for a counter to the Calling. Then she had written that Avernus had gone to the Deep Roads and that she was taking the last of his research to Weisshaupt. Leliana stopped receiving replies to her letters, and fear for Amell’s safety was added to her growing pile of concerns. She suspected that Aileas would keep some of the research for herself, as well as that Weisshaupt wouldn’t necessarily be eager to have a cure for the Calling, not if it turned out to be like Fiona’s and removed a Warden’s powers. The Grey Wardens leadership, while respectful of Amell, was also wary and suspicious of her survival. Aileas had told them that Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds, had saved her, and Flemeth’s hut had been long since abandoned when the Wardens went knocking. Whether controlled by blood magic or not, Loghain seemed to have kept quiet about the ritual as well. Leliana had no choice but to wait and hope.    
  
Then Amell had appeared, with a pile of gifts as was customary for her upon a return, and stripped of her rank. Weisshaupt hadn’t been happy about something, but she hadn't appeared bothered by it at all. Instead she had been more than just vaguely hopeful for once, having received a clue from none other than Morrigan. Disconcerting as the witch was, she knew her trade. Amell had left two days later, to the west, with the arrangement that she’d check for letters once a month or so at the westernmost Warden's keep. For three months that agreement held, then nothing. Leliana’s raven to the closest of the keeps returned with its letter undelivered. She sent scouts and they found the keep abandoned. She sent more, to some of the keeps further west, but they, too, were empty. There hadn’t been any sightings of Grey Wardens in Orlais recently.  
  
Leliana dipped her quill again and started penning a letter to Nathaniel Howe. Maybe he’d know, or if not, ask Weisshaupt. Her own letters had been ignored before, his would carry more weight. Her other option was Alistair. According to Amell, things between them were “all right”. With things “not all right” encompassing from high heels all the way to broodmothers, Leliana wasn’t sure what that meant in regards to the king.  
  
Once done, she sent a bird to Denerim, from where a scout would take it to Vigil’s Keep, and if possible, hand it personally.  
  


* * *

  
Cullen arrived. One more reason to be glad Aileas wasn’t here. Cassandra had apparently recruited the man as some sort of goodwill and balancing act for Hawke, since the two had managed not to kill each other in seven years. Last Leliana had seen him, he’d been wailing curses and bloody murder at Amell, but she wasn’t sure he even recognized her now. She’d rather he didn’t, if they were to work together.  
  
“The prisoner is most likely a mage from Ostwick. What do you know of the Circle there?”  
  
“Truly very little, they kept to themselves, I guess. Refused to take in mages from Starkhaven when their tower burnt down, refused to send enchanters to train apprentices when we requested some. Their mages were still holed up when we left Kirkwall, and we never got any templars from there either.”  
  
Kirkwall must have been a real pit if Cullen knew so little of their neighbors, or Ostwick had been taking an isolationist approach for quite a few years.  
  
It wasn’t two hours before Leliana’s scouts reported that Solas had been in a nearby village at the time of the explosion. That didn’t exclude him from the list of suspects entirely, but they were pressed for time and resources. There were four soldiers and a templar near the prisoner’s cell at any time, should either of the mages attempt an attack. She called for Cassandra and Josephine, to hear about Trevelyan and explain about Solas.  
  
Josephine went first. “I checked the books on Marcher nobility, and our best guess is that he is Bann Trevelyan’s fourth child, Ray Trevelyan. There are a few other mages in the extended family, but none close to this one’s age. In the main family he is the only mage in four generations. Born in the summer of 9:14, he is twenty-seven years of age, taken to the Circle as a child of eight. Sadly I couldn’t find much more on him, the indices of nobility don’t concern themselves with mages. It is unusual for one to carry a family crest.”  
  
“Unusual and extremely incriminating,” said Cassandra. “Unless the bann didn’t know what he was planning to do.”  
  
“Or,” suggested Leliana, “he didn’t do it.”  
  
“Assuming he is indeed Ray Trevelyan and that the crest was acquired legitimately, the bann might be more involved with the Ostwick situation than we would normally presume. Although a firstborn, she was given to the Chantry as a child. The teyrn of Ostwick restored her position eventually, but in all the years she spent with the sisters she must have made some good connections - that must be the reason for her current influence in the Ostwick Chantry. I can see her and others like her using their leverage and pressing the Chantry into trying to rein in their templars, as slaughter in the streets helps no one, and certainly not trade." She paused and took a deep breath. "There might be even more. Ray Trevelyan has a firstborn elder sister and two elder brothers, as well as another sister, born after he’d left for the Circle. There is no indication of any of them taking templar or sister vows, and that is a first in at least six generations.”  
  
“Traditionally a pious house, I take it?” Cassandra asked.  
  
“Without a doubt many, the Trevelyans first among them, would paint it as such,” replied Josephine. “It might well be true. But it is also an excellent way of preventing infighting for inheritance, as well as of putting people in good social positions that don’t suggest marriage. An heir and a spare, as these things go. Which makes for three children - two, with one being a mage, who escaped this fate. Neither of them is married, although his sister is also very young.”  
  
“Ugh, nobles and their incessant scheming,” huffed Cassandra. “Are you saying that the bann is pulling away from the Chantry? This thing would be years in the making, and she couldn’t have known how things would turn out. And all that for what, a mage child?”  
  
“Pulling away might be the wrong angle to look at it. Her influence there is considerable, it would make more sense for her to want to keep it. All it would take is a few more like her, and they have what the Free Marches like having - more freedom and independence. Mages on one’s side are a considerable force. With no longer Orlais, but an independent Ferelden on the other side of the channel, they have little need to cater to the Empire, especially with the Chantry taking over Kirkwall in all but name.”  
  
Kirkwall had been conquered and occupied many times, and in 9:21 the then ruling viscount Threnhold had been ousted by Grand Cleric Elthina and Meredith Stannard under the influence of Divine Beatrix III, who had been serving Orlesian interests. At the core had been Kirkwall’s port and the tolls on Orlesian ships. It made sense for Ostwick, which together with Amaranthine ruled the channel between Waking Sea and Amaranthine Ocean, to be wary of an Orlesian Chantry meddling or taking over politics and trade. Something was likely brewing in Ostwick.  
  
“I checked the attendance list for the clerics. Unless they decided not to show up, both the Grand Cleric of Ostwick, and a suitable number of Revered Mothers were attending the Conclave. This is either something unplanned, or a really elaborate conspiracy by Ostwick, one that seems unlikely. Such an attack, once found out, would result in an Exalted March. Weakened as Orlais may be, the Ostwick army wouldn’t stand a chance.”  
  
At Leliana’s signal a scout led Solas in. The elf nodded slightly at the three women. After an awkward introduction, mainly due to Cassandra’s glaring, Leliana turned to him.  
  
“Before we go to the prisoner, there is something else you might help inspect.” She slid the tray with the book to him, careful to pull her fingers away within seconds. “He had this on him, it is cursed or otherwise under some spell. Can you do something about it?”  
  
Solas approached and hovered a hand over the book. A small smile appeared on his lips.  
  
“Well?” beckoned Cassandra.  
  
“It is a wisp, fueling some spells. Quite elaborate.”  
  
“The question is,” Cassandra was tapping her foot, “can you remove it?”  
  
“Yes, Seeker.” Solas cast and a few seconds later a faint light submerged the book and then scattered, disappearing. He didn’t wait for permission to open the book. Cassandra walked up to him and looked over his shoulder.  
  
“This looks Tevine, is it a spell?” she frowned. Leliana could see that the inside of the front cover was covered in a tidy hand. “He could be a Tevinter agent.”  
  
“I am not sure as I don’t speak the language. It sounds familiar however, I have heard it in the Fade,” Solas started muttering the words. “This is a counter to mind control. It is not a bad thing to have on the road in the midst of a mage rebellion.” He flipped pages one after another. “Ah, there is our little terror hex, but a much simpler version of it. The one cast on the book was unnecessarily complex, I wonder why.” He continued reading. “This is more of a grimoire or a sketchbook. Hm, he got this one wrong and someone corrected it in a different hand. A paralyzing glyph compounded with a spell to drain an opponent of mana. A fairly simple spell but rarely mastered, like most spirit magic." Solas looked up. "Overall quite elaborate and powerful spells, mostly elemental offensive magic.”  
  
“Can you deduce anything by what’s in it? Are we dealing with a rebel mage or a loyalist? Is there anything about blood magic?”  
  
“It’s a collection of spells, Seeker,” he paused. “And of drawings of plants. Not ideologies. I cannot infer political motivations from it. It has nothing on blood magic so far, save from the protection spell on the cover, and nothing about the Breach either. All I can say is that the mage to whom it belongs is likely an accomplished elementalist, with basic knowledge in a few other schools of magic.”  
  
“How accomplished exactly?”  
  
“That is hard to tell. The journal doesn’t have the tear of years on it, and it starts at an advanced place. In any case its owner is capable of understanding interaction with the Fade well enough to venture into experimentation.”  
  
Solas kept turning the pages until he came upon a loose sheet, folded into three. He opened it, scanned it briefly and spoke. “I believe this holds the answer to your questions, Seeker.” Cassandra took the paper and read through it, eyebrows furrowed.  
  
“What is is?” Leliana finally asked.  
  
“What else, demands for support for their cause.” Cassandra handed her the document. “His name is signed under senior enchanters. Libertarian, as one would expect.” This by itself was fairly odd, as rebel mages didn’t hold onto their former Circle ranks too tightly. A loyalist still might have insisted on it, but for a libertarian it made less sense.  
  
Two thirds of the front side of the paper were covered by the text of a manifesto of sorts. The Ostwick Circle had indeed spent nearly a year ruling itself. A paragraph covered some examples of spells which could be used as a substitute, nay, improvement over templar ones. The text, which started in a tone respectfully humble and explanatory, ended on a strong note with the mages’ demands. The mages would abide by the original Chantry laws of no blood magic or ruling, but they would serve Ostwick, and not the Chantry. Following the text, and covering the backside of the paper as well, were the signed names of presumably all the mages, and apprentices, of Ostwick. Trevelyan’s was sixth on the list, after the first enchanter’s - also a libertarian, and together with seven more senior enchanters. The majority of enchanters listed were aequitarians, and there wasn’t a single loyalist.  
  
A soldier rushed in unbidden. “Lady Cassandra, the prisoner is casting spells! Still asleep. The templar couldn’t stop much of it!”  
  
“Come with us, Solas. You need to have a look at him.” Cassandra made for the door.  
  


* * *

  
“I am surprised you have mere soldiers guarding a mage, Seeker.” Solas said while they were passing through half a dozen of them in the tunnel on their way to the prisoner.  
  
“They are guarding him from the villagers,” Cassandra replied dryly. “As capable of a mage as he may be, he’s quite susceptible to being mauled to death in his sleep.”  
  
“Ah, yes. Always ready to attack what they do not understand.” Leliana saw Cassandra’s face pull into a grimace. The apostate was perhaps too outspoken given the circumstances.  
  
The air was cold and when they got to the cell, its walls were covered in ice. The templar was in the opposite corner of the clearing, breathing heavily.  
  
“Lady Cassandra, it happened so suddenly. He cast a barrage of spells one after the other, I had to retreat in the middle of it.” Leliana noticed that the floor in front of the cell was singed. The templar had still managed to lock the cell’s door.  
  
Cassandra approached and gestured for Solas to follow. The soldiers were nowhere to be seen.  
  
“The air is crackling with magic,” Solas neared the cell bars to look at the man.  
  
“What is going on with him, Solas? And where are the other soldiers?” she turned to the Templar, who had stepped forward.  
  
A fire glyph appeared on the ground and Solas was quick to dispell before the templar had time to react, then spoke for him.  
  
“I presume they escaped with their lives. As for what is going on, I am not entirely sure. If the journal belongs to this man indeed, a senior enchanter no less, it is impossible that he cannot control his magic in a dream. But this is what we seem to be observing here,” another dispell followed. “A second manifestation of magic, only one powered by years of experience. He is in the Fade and likely fighting something, but is not aware of it. Very uncharacteristic of an adult mage.”  
  
“Then let us hope he doesn’t turn into an abomination any moment now,” Cassandra’s scowl deepened. “The mark on his hand comes and goes, seemingly coinciding with the Breach’s pulsations.”  
  
Solas cast a spell, the mage groaned and grew calmer. Leliana was unlocking the cell door and turned back to look at him. “What did you do?”  
  
“Followed his own notes, drained his mana. That should keep your soldiers safe.” Solas approached the cot and knelt. Strands of black hair were stuck with sweat to the man’s face. The elf’s eyes moved lower and he caught first his left hand, then the right, looking for a mark. There was nothing on either.  
  
“I suppose we have to wait and see. I will look after him and take care of stray spells.” Solas picked up the mage’s braid and looked at it with curiosity. “What do you know about this man?”  
  
“Aside from him being from the Ostwick Circle of Magi, it is very likely that he’s the son of Bann Trevelyan, a noble house in Ostwick.” Leliana said.  
  
“His clothes are not even singed, are we sure he was actually at the Conclave?”  
  
“He walked out of the Fade amidst the ruins of the temple. He might have caused the explosion from within. We all know what happens when mages walk the Fade physically.” Cassandra wasn’t going to be giving much benefit of the doubt, it seemed.  
  
Solas undid the braid’s band and pulled out the twig to examine it, rotating it in his hand. It kept its shape, perfectly fitting every twist of the braid it was taken from. “This is Dalish magic. A Dalish mage braided his hair and twisted the twig into it in the process. That should make a connection to Tevinter very unlikely.”  
  
“It is strange for a Dalish mage to be involved with the Circles’ rebellion.” Leliana was hesitant. “Some of them have taken an interest and were watching closely, but I haven’t heard of an alliance with any of the clans.”  
  
“Maybe a pariah, maybe something else,” Solas said absentmindedly. “Braiding a human’s hair is not a gesture of alliance, they were friends. Close friends.”  
  
“He is a bit young to be a senior enchanter. He must be less than ten years past his Harrowing.” Cassandra eyed the man suspiciously. “Or is he really that good of a mage?” She looked at Solas for an answer.  
  
“If he is, then it’s even stranger for him to lose control.”  
  
As if prompted, the sleeping mage convulsed, groaning, and the room was drowned in green light for a few seconds. Solas grabbed the glowing hand and cast. The light shimmered down leaving a jagged green mark on the man’s palm.  
  
“Fascinating, this matches the magic of the rifts.”  
  
“So he did it after all!” Cassandra exclaimed angrily.  
  


* * *

  
6 Kingsway, 9:41  
  
The morning found Haven and its surroundings in a more destitute state than ever before. Only a rift opening in the middle of the village would have made matters worse. For days now they had been fighting demons, losing more and more people. The Breach had grown humongous, but those still alive didn’t think they’d live for long enough to witness it swallowing the world. Everybody was desperate and angry. People had tried storming the prison to kill the mage twice now, nearly killing a soldier instead. The few other mages still alive felt safer fighting demons. The alchemist, Adan, had to be escorted in and out to make it through the menacing crowd. Even Cassandra had descended into threats, urging to action. What action precisely, even she didn’t know.  
  
The prisoner’s physical condition had improved. The second day had passed with him thrashing and muttering in his sleep and Adan had barely dared to go into the cell to administer some elfroot drops. There hadn’t been any more casting however, and Solas had concluded that the mage had gotten it under control. By the third day Adan had grown more optimistic, with vitals stabilizing almost completely, while Solas had started looking despondent. Apparently a mage couldn’t spend too long without using magic, and the mark was shortening that time for the prisoner. The elf had said he had done everything he could to get him to cast from his sleep, but without success. The healing magic and wards he’d been casting on the mark wouldn’t stay useful for long, and the mark would likely kill him. When there hadn’t been anything more he could do, Solas had joined fighting the demons instead. Their only hope was that the prisoner would wake up soon, or at least that was what Adan held for likely. Cassandra had put more templars outside of the prison.  
  
Josephine’s appeals to the local nobles had garnered little success. There were rifts all over the Hinterlands. The Mages’ Collective had written that they’d send people to investigate, but that had been all. Leliana had sent word to her agents in Starkhaven to move to Ostwick, along with a sketch of the mage, but they were to collect only general information until further notice.  
  
“There are templars within the city walls and a few wandering around the surrounding small villages and remote farms.” Leliana summarized some of her notes for Cassandra, who was pacing like a caged dragon. “My scouts ran across some mages too, in the north, allegedly doing exactly what the templars were doing in the south - watching for random attacks on peasants and travelers.” Beyond that piece of information the mages had refused to share anything at all. Nobody had stopped the scouts from getting closer to the magi tower, which turned out to be an old fortress on the northern slope of the Vimmark Mountains.  
  
The Breach still wasn’t a tangible threat to the people in those parts of Thedas. As long as it wasn’t in plain view, news of something so extraordinary couldn’t make it past people’s daily worries. Besides, the city was in mourning - the clerics had been at the conclave after all. Still, life seemed to be going on. Ships still docked and departed from the harbor, and if anything about mages worried the population, it was mostly the mages that got off these ships from time to time. Those were what the templars were chiefly occupied with, watching carefully. They didn’t attack on sight, but nobody carrying a staff could go beyond the harbor and its inns. There were, however, Ostwick mages on military ships. According to dock workers those were there to deal with apostates in raiders’ ranks, who had grown in number significantly. True or not, it meant that the teyrn had sanctioned it.  
  
The most alarming piece of information was that there had been talks about Tevinters roaming around and boarding ships. That the people of Ostwick were alarmed by that as well was a small relief. If the nobles were brewing a conspiracy indeed, simple citizens weren’t going to be the first to be told about it.  
  
Her agent had seen some in Amaranthine as well, although whether those had been the same Tevinters, Leliana had no way of knowing. She could only hope this wasn’t what it looked like. Ferelden had no reason to get involved with Tevinter. Yet the king’s open invitation to mages, the teyrn’s tacit endorsement, Tevinters in both places, a Chantry in shambles, Orlais in a civil war… it didn’t look good. Could Tevinter have waited for the chaos to make their move in the south? Or had they been the ones to cause it? She would have to keep the worst of her misgivings from Cassandra for the time being.  
  
Howe hadn’t been aware of the missing Orlesian Wardens and had promised to write to Weisshaupt - with the warning that he might not be able to divulge the contents of their reply.  
  
Leliana had resigned herself to watching Cassandra simmer in helplessness when a soldier knocked and came in, speaking out of breath.  
  
“Lady Cassandra, the prisoner woke up.”  
  
Cassandra left the room immediately, without a word, and Leliana followed.


	3. Chapter 3

_6 Kingsway, 9:41_

Ray stirred from his dream, his mind slowly re-entering the waking world. Strange, he hadn’t had to deal with so many demons in a dream since forever. Maybe it was this place. His eyes opened to a rough stone ceiling, the weak light of a fire flickering around its hollows and jagged edges. The next thing he became aware of was that his hands were constrained, metal heavy around his wrists. He would still be able to cast, but of course he didn’t have his staff either, because they had left those before being allowed into the temple. His memories were jumbled, and for the first time in many years he wasn’t sure which of them were memories, and which dreams. He reached for the Fade. He wasn’t dreaming now.

Without turning his head he looked to the side. He was in a prison cell and a templar in full armor was standing in the cell with him, leaning sideways on the cell bars. This didn’t make any sense, and Ray once again searched for an answer in his memories. Demons aside, they had been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, walking along a side corridor during the recess after the first few hours. Elonna had been complaining about someone possibly walking away with her ironbark staff. Which wouldn’t happen, because Charles had put an amalgam of hexes on all of their things, the complexity of which would require plenty of concentrated effort to break. Or, as it had been mainly intended, a really good scare for whomever attempted to hold them for more than a few seconds. She grumbled mostly to keep the mood light. They all had been stunned by the amount of people. Nicole had been quiet ever since. She had never spoken in front of so many people before. None of them had even seen that many people in once place. Their turn wouldn’t even come on the first day, in all probability.

The memory ended there, just like that. Could they have walked into someone’s sleep hex? Someone hit him on the head? It wasn’t blood magic, that they had been guarding against for months. Probably. It wouldn’t make much sense for someone to attack them in the hallways of the temple, especially with magic. The place had been reeking of lyrium from all the templars, who had apparently felt too vulnerable without their swords. And, sure, they had important things to say, but it wasn’t like people were clamoring to hear from the Ostwick mages. Still, apparently someone had an interest in sabotaging them.

What had been clamoring, had been the denizens of the Fade. Quite a few had attacked as well, and mostly scattered away when his first spell hit. He’d never seen so many spirits and demons in a dream before. No wonder the landscape had been a complete mess, if nearly every one of them attempted to spin their own version. He frowned. The woman had been in another dream. One he didn’t have a staff in, that much he remembered. His spells had been utterly chaotic and useless, and he had been running up some stairs. The woman had been trying to pull him up, he thought.

First things first, he had to get himself out of this cell. Then he’d look for the others. There was a blanket on top of him, so even if the templar looked his way, he wouldn’t notice Ray moving his fingers. That would have to do to focus the energy. Hexes had never been his specialty, but putting one bored templar to sleep shouldn’t prove that difficult. He couldn’t risk a fight, not in such close quarters and without a weapon. He closed his eyes and relaxed, starting to weave the glyph slowly as not to jump the spell and alert the templar prematurely. A minute later he had gotten nowhere. He had plenty of mana, the Fade was there for him to take from, and still, something was disrupting his casting. He didn’t know of such a templar skill. Runed shackles were also supposed to work differently.

Ray concentrated again, preparing to retry, and that’s when sharp pain exploded throughout his whole body. He couldn’t stop a cry from escaping and his eyes from flying open, and the templar was on him in an instant, drawing his sword and calling on an aura to weaken the flow of Fade energy. He didn’t know how long it lasted before the pain receded. His left hand hurt still, like having it submerged into lyrium at the Harrowing had hurt. Frantic clattering noise made him sit up and look around once his brain could focus on something else. The templar was standing on the other side of the bars, aura still active. Had it been something of lesser significance, it might have failed to register in Ray’s mind, but the realization that he was feeling his connection to the Fade as strong as usual, stronger even, made him stare blankly at the templar for a few seconds. The man had also assumed an extremely defensive stance, and that was quite the opposite of what he expected from a templar standing before a shackled mage.

Ray shook down the blanket to look at his hand. On the inside of his left palm was a jagged green mark, still glowing softly as the pain throbbed like a pulse. It wasn’t lyrium, beyond that he knew nothing of it. He stood up, legs shaky and his head humming with dizziness, and walked closer to the cell bars, but still far enough to be out of reach of the templar’s sword.

“Where am I?” The templar wasn’t making the slightest movement, and Ray noticed two soldiers further behind him. They looked like proper soldiers, too, not some sellswords. Why would they be working together with the templars? “Where am I, answer me!” He yelled this time and that made the templar react, but only to take a step back.

Ray looked down at the barred manacles binding his wrists. Melting through that might not work right now, without good focus he was somewhat likely to burn through his own hand. He rotated his hands together, looking for the keyhole. If the lock was simple enough, he’d be able to move the latches within to unlock it. Once he found where the mechanism was, he started rattling the insides of the lock. It _was_ a fairly simple one, just four latches to push around, and he still couldn’t get it right. Something was really messing up with his casting.

He wasn’t prepared for a second attack of the pain, but the sheer surprise of how it manifested startled him enough to only gasp in shock and fall on his haunches, lock all but forgotten. His left hand was engulfed in green light, flickering bolts of lightning fizzling around it. His heart was beating wildly, its thudding almost drowning the receding pain. He was still in a daze when he felt someone pull him up and out of the cell, then more templars poured in and surrounded him. The suppressing aura grew much stronger and he could feel the Fade growing distant, but still maintaining presence. There simply wasn’t an explanation he could imagine as he racked his brain for answers. Attacking still wasn’t an option, and the templars looked more confident now as well. He fell back to his knees, partly because he was starting to feel dizzy again, and partly to put them at ease. A drop of sweat slid over his nose and instinctively he raised a hand to wipe it. His hands only got as far as fingers brushing against his chin. More than a day’s stubble, his brain supplied almost irritatingly, and Ray was left staring ahead and trying to figure out just what had happened to him, and to his friends.

Movement among the templars alerted him, and he turned his head to see them parting to let two women through. One of them had a Seeker insignia covering the better part of her armor. He prepared for yet more suppressing aura and perhaps a testing smite, but she only walked around him slowly. His eyes followed her halfway through until they reached the cells opposite of his. As much as he strained his eyes he couldn’t see if there was anyone in them. The second woman approached as well, staring down at him, judging the danger most likely. Whatever the thing on his hand was, templars couldn’t be happy to have it around. How it had gotten there depended on what had happened during the two or three days he’d been out of it.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” the Seeker at his back leaned forward. He felt like laughing at her question, his own seemed much more important. There was no reason for her not to kill him, that’s what mages and templars had been doing to each other for a year. The Conclave couldn’t have been that successful, it seemed. He frowned noticing that his book was missing, and with it the manifesto. Nicole had the proper scroll, though if the templars had taken over, they wouldn’t want to listen to it anyway. He just hoped they hadn’t all gotten separated. Any three, even any two of them could slip out of most dangerous situations.

“The Conclave is destroyed. All those people dead…” Ray didn’t know what she was talking about. The moment she straightened he willed a wisp and flew it into one of the cells. It was empty. He heard her unsheathing her sword and the templars stepped in closer. Ray let go of the wisp, the clearing returning to the dim flickering of fires.

“Where are my friends? What is going on?”

“Were they mages? What were you doing? Do you remember how this started?” The other woman, red hair underneath a shawl, stepped towards him amidst a barrage of questions.

“Of course they are mages, what do you think! A recess had started and we were walking through the temple, that’s all I remember.”

Suddenly the Seeker squeezed his still glowing hand, jerking it up violently enough for the shackles to slide at an angle and dig into his wrists. “Explain _this_.” With that she let go of his hand and threw it down with just as much force. Ray’s eyes prickled from the pain.

“I can’t,” he gasped. “I don’t know what that is or how it got there.”

“You’re lying!” She grabbed at the front of his shirt and shook him. He started working on the lock again, determined to get his hands free before they got broken.

“We need him, Cassandra,” the redheaded woman managed to get the Seeker off him quite easily. She turned to him. “You know nothing? Remember nothing more?”

Ray thought of his dream. It couldn’t have been the Fade if he had been running without a staff. “I remember running. _Things_ were chasing me, and then… a woman? She reached out to me, but then…” Perhaps those had been abominations, and things had really gone down south at the Conclave. But that would have happened in the main hall, and they hadn’t been there.

“You are the only survivor,” the woman spoke again. Her eyes were cold and… seeking. Certainly more so than the Seeker’s.

“What _did_ happen?” He bit his lip. They wouldn’t get separated during an attack, they knew how to fight together to stay together. But he had been running alone.

“It will be easier to show you.” Cassandra knelt down and unlocked the shackles, while a templar brought him his boots and coat. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take him to the rift.”

“One more thing,” Leliana turned back. “What is your name?”

“Trevelyan. You know, that is usually the first thing.” The Seeker straightened and pulled him up with her while the other woman left through the door. “No need for introductions, already got yours,” Ray muttered. They weren’t going to kill him for now, and he needed some time to think things through.

“I’m hungry.” The Seeker huffed, then grabbed his wrists and prepared to loop a rope around them. She did seem to put a lot of effort into non-verbal communication. “I haven’t eaten and I can’t walk!” He dropped to the floor and the Seeker relented with a disgusted grunt. She wasn’t going to be carrying him, strong as she was. In the meantime he could gather some focus and strength.

He’d wait until they showed him whatever it was they wanted him to see, then he was going to slip away. The green mark was at least good against templars, and if they were to take him to the temple, he’d manage to snag a staff. They had gotten separated, that much was obvious, but the others weren’t captive. Probably lying low because he’d gotten himself captured.

He took the bread and water one of the templars handed him. These people were really doing the prisoner thing by the book.

The green mark remained yet to be explained. It made templars less effective - who would say no to that, and it seemed to be what was disturbing his casting, which was decisively less beneficial. He hadn’t ever heard of a possessed hand, at least not one still attached to someone living. Neither was it a rune burned into him, he’d be dead from the lyrium. It wasn’t easy to isolate focus to just one hand while looking, so he took the flask of water in his right hand and looked at the Seeker instead, chewing on his bread. Luckily, she staring angrily into some empty point in front of her. He tried frosting the surface of the flask with the tiniest bit of mana. So far, so good, as usual the elements were easier for him to control than hexes or kinetic energy. The next time he picked up it up, he did so with the hand with the mark on it, and almost immediately felt resistance. He still pushed through, and barely held back a gasp when his fingers froze stuck to the surface. He hadn’t used more mana, less if he had felt it correctly. This was something related to the Fade, even connected to the Fade, judging by its effect on templar skills. That didn’t explain how it had gotten on his hand, but if there had been abominations at the Conclave, perhaps it was something left by a spirit, maybe after a battle. Still, even if he had hit his head hard enough to fall and forget about it all, Nicole wouldn’t have left him there for dead. In twenty years he hadn’t sneezed around her without getting a healing.

He was starting to think in circles, so with fingers unstuck by now he moved the flask into his more controllable hand and warmed it enough to hide the tampering.

“Right, I think I can walk now,” he put on his boots and coat, and held his wrists together for the Seeker without waiting for invitation. She didn’t look any happier about it, but she seemed that kind of person anyway. He wondered what all this would mean for the peace talks. Mages and templars could defend themselves, some better than others. Clerics less so. Probably depended on who had started the fighting, although he knew from experience that it could be hard to tell even with just a few mages and templars, let alone a few hundred. Probably better to regroup and make it home as quickly as possible.

* * *

He was a bit wobbly on his feet, which wasn’t surprising if he had spent days lying. They walked through a dimly lit corridor, a few soldiers pulling back as close to the wall as they could as he passed them by. Then the Seeker pushed another wooden door open, and the light bustling in assaulted his eyes. He could only see swirling black spots for a few moments, and then they faded and blended into a dull whiteness. There was snow on the other side, but there was none of the blinding sunlight falling onto it, like on the day they had to walk to the temple and squint all the way through.

He raised his eyes to the sky more out of habit. He hadn’t even asked how many days had passed, the time of the day was not the first thing on his mind. The confirmation that it was cloudy barely registered. A whirlpool of clouds loomed over the whole sky, immediately drawing all attention to what lay in the middle of it - a well of green light that illuminated the clouds around it and a spiral of what looked like glowing smoke twirling amidst rocks or chunks of ice.

“We call it “the Breach”. It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. Unless we act the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.” The Seeker’s words were distant, thoughts and eyes still taken in with the phenomenon, the Fade replacing the sky.

Light exploded from the eye of the Breach and before he knew it his hand was stretching towards it, enveloped in the same light and shooting the already familiar pain through his body. He screamed and fell to his knees once again. Thoughts in disarray from the ebbing pain, he sifted through memories again, desperately looking for the one that would reveal to him what the mark on his hand was. There was nothing.

“Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads… and it is killing you. It may be the key to closing the Breach, but there isn’t much time.”

“But how?” Ray stood up and looked at his hand, the mark dimming back to a pale scar. “What caused this?”

Cassandra’s unrelenting stare gave him a good idea of what she thought.

“You think I did this? To myself?” Part of him knew she had reason to. The rift into the Fade was connected to what was on his hand, and it was magic.

“Not intentionally. _Something_ clearly went wrong.” She pushed him ahead and they went down a small hill and onto a village road flanked by people barely containing themselves from killing him on the spot.

“There will be a trial. I can promise no more.” Cassandra cut the rope around his wrists while soldiers opened the village gates for them. “Come. It is not far.”

Ray was starting to feel like he was being dragged to a Harrowing. “Where are you taking me?”

“Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach.”

“You mean there are others?”

“The Breach was just the first, caused by the explosion at the Conclave. The larger it grows the more rifts appear.”

He had stopped listening at “explosion”. His plans for further action wavered. Explosions were not like templars, or abominations, or demons. One didn’t fight them, or outrun them. He had stopped in his tracks, eyes turned to the Breach, unseeing. When the Seeker grabbed his shoulders and turned him to face her, all resistance had gone from him.

“An explosion?”

“It laid waste to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“Then how did I survive?” Aside from the mark, he was unscathed. Even his clothes were.

“They say you… stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious. They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.” The words were sinking in slowly, seeking a memory to reconstruct what had happened. The woman who was in a dream and not in a dream, him running alone. This was too much. It wasn’t simply an explosion, not even just the skies torn. That would be the Third Sin. But why him, and why him alone? He only remembered a shimmering silhouette, but that hadn’t been Nicole nor Elonna. Why some unknown woman?

* * *

He walked in a daze, the numbness spreading through his body dulling even the pain of the mark’s pulsations. Soldiers were running past them, and now and then they saw corpses, armored, some templars. If he weren’t a mage, Ray would be asking himself whether this was some horrible nightmare, but he knew with absolute certainty that it was not. A bridge collapsed from under their feet and even that didn’t rouse his halted mind at first. Pain from the fall was slowly taking over and he felt his consciousness slipping. He wanted to let it slip, to the Fade or into oblivion, away from this. The Seeker was fighting something, demons. He had only ever seen one demon outside of the Fade, and even then it hadn’t been as disfigured as those.

It was only when one sprang at him that his body reacted without any thought. Pure instinct from fighting countless demons in the Fade took over, and he cast a barrier and a quick lightning spell to shock the creature. Memories of spells misbehaving and barely coming through came forth, and he pushed the demon away to try to focus, in a completely different direction from the one he had intended. A simple staff had rolled a few steps away from him, among scattered luggage from the collapsed bridge. He made a run for it, only to slam into the ground again, as the ground turned out to be made of smooth ice. At least the demon didn’t seem to be faring better at moving around, and by the time it lurched into its next attack, Ray cast another spell at it, and closed his fingers around the grip of the staff. It wasn’t even on the level of a Circle-issued staff for an apprentice, he would be only slightly worse off with a stick or a sword. It was still a staff, though, and every bit helped now that even a simple spell seemed to take a lot more focus.

The demon that had attacked him finally crumbled after a few more spells, and one literal hit with the head of the staff. Without the thought and will to hold together the mess the demon had conjured for itself, it fell apart into nothing. The Seeker was doing fine. She had killed one of the demons, and while making slow progress with the other, it hadn’t been able to get through her defense either. Ray wondered whether he should help. As things were he didn’t completely trust himself not to hit her with a misdirected spell. Then again she was a templar of sorts. He threw a cautious bolt that hit the demon the moment the Seeker’s sword went through its throat. She pulled it out and in one uninterrupted motion was pointing the blade at him.

“Drop your weapon. _Now_.” He did. It was a terrible weapon anyway, and it certainly wouldn’t protect him from her. The staff landed near the body of a soldier crushed by a boulder from the bridge. That could have been him, Ray thought. Reality was seeping back in. He stood there motionless as the Seeker sheathed her sword and lowered herself to the ground. “You are not a spirit healer, are you?”

“I am sorry. Most I can do is close a shallow wound.” If even that much in his current state. The soldier had landed on his back, boulder sunken into his chest. “Is he still alive?”

“It won’t be long. His lungs are crushed.” She picked the staff and handed it to him. “You don’t need a staff, but you should have one. I cannot protect you. I should remember you did not attempt to run.”

“What about him?” Run where? There was back to where they had come from and then towards where she was leading him anyway. Or maybe run on the frozen river they were standing on.

“He is unconscious. He won’t suffer.”

She pressed something into his hand, the one without the mark. A leather flask.

“Take this, it’s elfroot. Maker knows what we will face.” She watched him take a sip and put the flask in his pocket.

His thoughts flew back to the explosion she had spoken about. The temple was huge, had they cleared up everything, or were there buried people still alive? Mages should be able to lift the rocks away, even injured and without staves, and there had been more than a hundred of them. There was nothing else to do but to go along for now, and look for himself.

More demons waited ahead, and Ray’s spells had started coming out somewhat closer to what they were supposed to be. The elfroot potion had taken effect and the Seeker was one of the more capable templars he had seen fighting. They were getting through this fine. The mark on his hand also seemed to hurt less when it flared up along with the Breach. Screeches and cries in the distance above them made Cassandra urge him to walk faster. He was going as fast as he could, but they were once again crossing a curve of the frozen river. They reached the foot of a hill and ran up, the sounds of battle getting closer.

There was a mage in the group fighting, and from what Ray could see, he was doing what he could to keep everyone alive, freezing and shocking demons to keep them from the few fighters that didn’t even look like soldiers. The smaller rift the Seeker had talked about was also here. It was tiny against the Breach in the sky, even from this short of a distance - just some coiling smoke and lightning, and a strange substance shifting and coagulating into crystal shapes. Cassandra ran into the battle and Ray approached more carefully, still keeping his casting cautious. The moment he got close enough, the mage grabbed him by the left wrist and stretched his hand towards the rift.

“Quickly, before more come through!” Ray was about to ask what was required of him. For a few seconds he tried to reason with himself, decipher what he ought to do with his mark, but all he could feel was some pressure and urge building up, like he was underwater and holding the last of his breath, every sense screaming for him to break the surface. He let go, and the mark flared. The initial pain was sharp, but his amazement soon took the edge off it. He could feel himself directing the shifting of the Veil as it twisted, overlapped and closed, without understanding how exactly he was moving it. To him instinctive magic had always meant instinctively turning to magic. Were that to happen, the reins needed to be snatched back as soon as the first impulse had passed. He had been taught control again and again over the years, be it in his dreams or awake, to always plan the exact path and amount of energy, always know what the next thought and gesture would be. Casting and its outcome in the Fade were always a bit less predictable, but even so there was always thought and intent behind it.

It was over too soon and his hand snapped back. He felt as if someone had snatched him out of a dream too abruptly, the link to the Fade pulsing a few times before it became a mere thread at the back of his mind. The rift was gone. Ray turned to the mage, only now taking in his appearance - an elf with narrow face and eyes.

“What is this?”

“Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake - and it seems I was correct. It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

Ray couldn’t help rolling his eyes. That was not much of an explanation. Still, this mage had predicted what it did, and it wasn’t even on his hand.

“Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” A dwarf with a crossbow introduced himself as Varric Tethras. Ray couldn’t decide if the dwarf seemed weird because of his unbuttoned shirt, or if there was something else. They were in the Frostback Mountains and the place was living up to its name. The mage being barefoot didn’t surprise him as much, it had taken Elonna two years before she put on some slippers around the castle during winters. Then again the only dwarf Ray had seen outside of a book in the last twenty years had been a Carta lyrium smuggler, so maybe his standards weren’t the best. He seemed to annoy Cassandra, maybe he was pretty normal.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’” Varric was quick to add before Ray could speak. So Solas did know more about all of this - and apparently thought it was too soon for gratitude when Ray introduced himself and thanked him. Cassandra pressed them onwards to where they were meeting Leliana. The dwarf invited himself along, which the Seeker apparently hadn’t been planning on. She and Solas didn’t speak much, but Varric more than made up for the rest of them.

“Trevelyan, huh? Ostwick indeed then, had a bit of a problem placing your accent for a minute there.” Varric probably knew about his family from trading. Ray had a whole network of relatives across northern Thedas, but the dwarf probably didn’t know much more about them than Ray himself did. He also finished up the introduction Cassandra and Leliana had failed to properly start - as the Right and Left Hands of the Divine, on a mission to collect a new horde of templars or something of the kind, which was not a surprise.

“And you’re a mage! I had assumed if Cassandra’s prisoner was a mage, she’d have announced it far and wide by now.”

“People would have killed him together with those guarding him, had we done that. Questions still remain.”

“Just not about his guilt.” Varric turned to him. “Did they actually ask you questions or did they just toss you around in a cell?”

“Why bother asking, you can trust nothing he says. First we close the Breach, then we learn the truth.”

The conversation died quickly once Ray asked Solas and Varric about the temple. Waste and destruction was all they had seen, so Ray bit his lip and focused on pushing all thoughts aside, save for those dedicated to dealing with the demons they encountered as they moved closer to the temple.

* * *

He could hear the arguing from paces away as they neared the forward camp Leliana was waiting at. She was trying to reason with a cleric, one who would rather send him to Val Royeaux for execution rather than to the temple to try closing the Breach. Having heard who Leliana and Cassandra were, the cleric didn’t worry him. He was a man in the Chantry, so he was a nobody next to them. They moved on, Leliana and some soldiers splitting from them to take a path through a mountain of all places, while the rest of them continued on the quicker path between the ridges.

The next rift was waiting for them before the entrance into the temple. Ray’s heart sank. The wall with the arching gate stood no higher than the gate itself. They dealt with yet another rift right past the entrance, some commanding officer running towards them and speaking to Cassandra, but Ray had stopped paying attention. He had seen burned people. _He_ had burned people. But not like that, not with their deformed charred corpses left around. They had impulsively destroyed all bodies after the battle at the Circle. Later, when they had learned to save up everything, they would scavenge what could be scavenged of templars’ and bandits’ equipment, before having an entropy mage remove what was left. Why had they left these corpses around, the air still carried the stench of death even with days passed since.

Ray swallowed and closed his eyes, only opening them once they were pointed firmly to the ground. They went into a hallway, one left mostly intact, and the corpses were harder to ignore here, less charred and more melted. None were anywhere close to being recognizable. His eyes were stinging, tears welling up. They had been wrong to come here, should have stayed home where things had been working out.

Cassandra led them to a clearing. On the other side of a parapet he saw the rift, larger than the others, but calmer. The green shimmering smoke was rising up into the sky, but there were no demons and no coiling lightning. In the distance, between the remains of walls, were several more corpses. Still, there had been more than five hundred people at the Conclave. Maybe six hundred with the Qunari guards.

“Where are all the other people?”

“You are standing on their ashes.”

He reeled, his stomach revolting and spewing back acidic chunks of bread and juices. A sharp inhale turned into a sob and the world before him became a smudge of green and grey behind the tears.

“Has anyone ever told you how good for morale you are, Seeker?” Varric’s quip was the last anybody spoke for a long while.

Leliana’s voice came from behind and they were talking to him while he struggled to breathe, air heavy in his lungs. Successfully closing the Breach wasn’t a given and they didn’t know whether the exertion wouldn’t kill him. It should, that would be for the best. There wasn’t much left for him, and what came after some concocted trial of theirs wouldn’t be better. Rumor was Aeonar had been abandoned, and if they didn’t kill him, they might make him Tranquil. They might do so _before_ a trial, to try to get out whatever information they thought he was hiding from them. He pushed aside the hairs that had stuck to his face and followed them along the parapet toward the rift.

 _Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice._ The Fade bled through into a deep voice. _Someone help me!_ Cassandra recognized the Divine’s voice in the cry. There was too much of the Fade here, Ray felt like he had one foot in a dream. The mark had also began shimmering, not with the painful flare from before but more of a pulsating hum. It was a strange feeling, the malice of this place intermixed with some sense of peace and belonging. Like in his dream, spirits were clamoring around him, pressing on the Veil. The Veil here was just strong enough to keep them from crossing over, but too thin to keep their emotions contained. Curiosity and confusion, and then fear and anger, perhaps each feeling something different, or all of them conflicted. It was too loud, and the images they spun thronged, overlapping and indiscernible.

“That’s how I feel when I can’t decide where a story is going,” Varric murmured. He could probably only see the scrambled visions, not really feel the spirits behind them. But Solas did, Ray could tell. Cassandra could feel _something_ , and she looked ready to attack.

The more they neared the dormant rift, however, the more the spirits pulled back, reluctant to follow. When they were mere steps from the rift, the noise died out, only a few whispers remaining. The visions were clearer now, and Ray was facing himself, and his friends, their eyes wide with shock.

 _Run while you can! Warn them!_ He twisted around and saw the Divine, more haggard than he remembered her from the Conclave, arms spread bound with magic.

 _We have intruders._ The same voice as before, a tall figure looming over him, face smeared in constant flux. _Kill them._ Ray took a step back, towards the rift, and the mark crackled. _Now!_ The last of the spirits fled, and with them gone, the vision dissolved back into nothing.

“You _were_ there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…?” Cassandra crowded him, raining questions. “Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

“I don’t remember!” He spat back at her. It was the Fade, nobody could tell how true it was. But they had walked in on something. He would find out what, and who, if he lived.

“We are running out of time,” Solas spoke. “With the mark’s proximity the rift is cracking open.”

Ray stepped away from it, willing the spirits to come back, to reveal more, but they had abandoned this place. The agents of the Divine positioned soldiers and archers in wait for the demons that might come through, and when everyone was still and looking at him, Ray raised his hand at the rift.


	4. Chapter 4

_9 Kingsway, 9:41_

The servant had finally lifted herself from the floor and fled the room. Ray - or the mark, had done something to the Breach, but apparently hadn’t closed it like they had hoped he would. That couldn’t have been it for him, not if the Seeker wanted to see him. They had carried him back to Haven, after all, and the room was a far cry from the prison cell he had woken in three days prior. He flopped back on the bed and stared at the smooth wooden ceiling. He remembered wanting revenge at the temple, but that feeling was nothing but a hollow echo now. He should want at least an explanation, though he suspected nobody could give him that either.

Ray sat up and looked around. His clothes were neatly folded on a chair at the other end of the room, his coat slung over its back. He was prepared for the dizziness this time and spent some seconds sitting, unbuttoning the brown shirt they had put on him. There were bandages underneath, covering his ribcage. He pressed around carefully, but there wasn’t any dried blood, nor severe pain. He didn’t remember getting injured either, although it wasn’t usually immediately noticeable in the heat of battle. Ray frowned slightly, thinking back on it. His memories were intact this time, and so were his dreams. The demon at the rift had been strong, but seemingly not more intelligent than the simplest of rage demons. That wasn’t what the Circles had taught him.

When he finally walked to the chair with his clothes, his book was on the table before it, and next to it his rings and bag of coins. He searched the book, wards gone from it now, for the letter to the Conclave, but that was missing. His clothes had been cleaned and mostly still held up. The fur around the coat’s collar was singed here and there, and the leather bore some scratches, but no tears. Most notable of all was the new staff propped against the wall. He picked it up and channeled some energy without casting a spell. It was far from the best staff he had held, but it couldn’t compare to the pitiable stick he had picked up on the way to the Breach. At the head was an elaborate figure of a dragon, which was probably responsible for the staff not being as good as it could have been if it had something more functional instead. The ceremonial staff of a high-ranking mage, or at least a rich one. Still, for what it was, it had superb craftsmanship and the dragon was beautiful. The staff blade was also made of bone, slipping into macabre territory. Actually, even the dragon was a bit off. While this was the Dragon Age, dragons weren’t such a beloved imagery in the south, especially not on a mage. They had disintegrated some cement from the Circle’s castle walls simply because it had been looking ugly for ages, only to find dragon reliefs underneath - and many had proposed eroding them as well.

Ray had lost track of time playing around with the staff when a grating croak nearly made him jump. In the corner next to his feet stood a birdcage, housing a very angry looking red-hooded raven. Ray squatted in front of the cage and cautiously prodded into it with the staff blade. The raven let out another shrill sound, hopped back a step and launched itself into a half-circle around the cage that ended with its beak hitting the bone with full force. Ray pulled the staff hastily, glad he hadn’t stuck in a finger instead.

“Not friendly, I get it.” The raven assumed an even more bellicose pose, and Ray decided he really ought to go to the chantry instead, where the Seeker was waiting for him.

He opened the door and barely held himself from slamming it shut right away. There was a crowd waiting for him out there, and last time he had seen them, they had wanted him dead. A few seconds passed before he acknowledged that nobody appeared about to attack, and two soldiers were standing in a motionless salute, so he took a tentative step outside. A wide enough path was cleared for him and he tried to appear relaxed walking through. Not the easiest task since he wasn’t relaxed at all, and he had neglected to latch the staff on his back, probably looking too threatening himself.

 _That’s the Herald of Andraste._ He thought he hadn’t heard it correctly the first time, but here it was again. _It isn’t complicated. Andraste herself blessed him._

He finally dared to look up from the ground and steal a look at the sky. The green light was still there, as were some of the clouds from before. The twirling smoke was gone though, and most of the sky was only covered with pale stretched clouds with the barest tint of green to them.

 _That’s him. He stopped the Breach from getting any bigger._ At least he didn’t have to ask for direction to the chantry. He went up some stairs and saw the top of the building, his path there flanked all the way through.

Before the doors of the chantry a whole host of clerics had gathered, whispering among themselves. _Maker watch over you_ , one of them blessed him while Ray was pushing the doors open. He walked in, and someone pulled the doors closed behind him. The chantry looked deserted, and he soon saw why. Two angry voices, dulled but still intelligible, were echoing in the hall. One was Cassandra’s, he had learned that accent by now. He walked slowly to where the voices were coming from and held still in front of a large wooden door at the back of the hall. The other voice was the cleric from the forward camp, Chancellor Roderick, if the familiar rhetoric was to be trusted. Ray was pleasantly surprised that the Seeker was taking a mage’s side, even with a job gone not as expected. He walked in before someone had stepped out and caught him eavesdropping.

* * *

“Chain him. I want him prepared for travel to the capital for trial.” Same man indeed, though at least execution had been dialed down to the promised trial now.

Just as before the chancellor was swiftly sidelined, almost mockingly so, with Leliana declaring him a suspect in the accident as well. Ray was, of course, their tool for closing the Breach, so he wasn’t expecting to be chained anew. Still, it seemed that in the past three days the agents of the Divine had developed plenty of goodwill towards him. The second half of the confrontation with the chancellor turned decidedly more unnerving when Cassandra slammed a tome on the table and declared the Inquisition reborn by authority of the late Divine. The Inquisition wasn’t something a mage would think fondly of.

“We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order.” Cassandra was advancing towards Chancellor Roderick, who was walking backwards until there was nowhere left to retreat. “With or without your approval.”

Ray could get behind the first part, but restoring order was no comfort when it came from the people who had been collecting templars. The chancellor stormed out and Ray was left looking uncomfortably at the Hands of the Divine, wondering what awaited him. Leliana slid a paper across the table, the Ostwick mages’ declaration for the Conclave.

“You are no longer a prisoner,” she spoke. “But we will appreciate if you could shed some light on what is happening in Ostwick. Are you… are the mages working with the teyrn?”

Ray wondered how he could summarize three months of negotiations succinctly enough, with so many ifs and buts still waiting to be decided on. He should write to the mages and to his mother soon.

“The teyrn approached us a few months ago. Mages on pirate ships had burned down a few of Ostwick’s vessels, he needed mages of his own. Also healers, I suppose, without the need for the sick to be carted to a village close to us.”

“I admit I know little of naval warfare,” Leliana spoke, “but aren’t templars an option there?”

“They have short range and too much armor. Mages aren’t going to board the ship and then cast. Not to mention that while a templar can deflect the flames from himself and the immediate vicinity, it’s the ship that matters.” Ray pointed to the manifesto on the table. “We didn’t lie in this. Mages can counteract mages just fine. Other things as well, such as burning arrows.”

“What did the mages get out of this agreement?” 

“Supplies, mostly.” He shrugged. “We were already keeping roads around us clean, helping villagers, and healing. We also got a few acres around the castle, forests and a lake. Chiefly to circumvent poaching, but in the long run to have an estate for when we… established something that was not the Circle.”

“So the plan wasn’t for the mages to move out of the castle?”

“We are not delusional.” Not now, at least. Many had been, for a while. Two months after things had calmed down they had sent a Tranquil to the city, to spread the news that those who wished to visit family members in the castle could do so. Only a handful of people had shown up. They had hoped that once those returned safely, others would dare as well, but barely anyone had followed. Most had been parents of younger apprentices, but even so plenty had waited in vain. “We know people don’t want a hundred mages pouring into their city. The templars still brought children to us as well.”

“I am surprised there aren’t more isolationists on your list of enchanters, if that is the approach you have been taking,” the Seeker spoke.

“That is because we are not isolationists,” Ray could feel irritation bubbling up. For all the talks about compromise, the Chantry and its people didn’t see it when it was thrown in their face. And then they wondered why the Ostwick mages would work with a sovereign ruler rather than a bunch of clerics. “The people in villages accepted us, the people on ships did too. If we had to start from being guards, healers and soldiers, then so be it, we could work from there. We were also to get permission to trade goods and services, eventually.”

The next question about any knowledge of Tevinter involvement startled him. Mages working with Tevinter might have had some merit, if people were desperate enough, but it made no sense for the teyrn to do so. He hadn’t heard of anything from either camp. Supposedly there had been Tevinters in Ostwick, but there was no law against that and while uncommon, trade with them was certainly still practiced.

The meeting ended unlike anything he would have expected even minutes earlier. Ray Trevelyan joined the Inquisition - for the moment.

* * *

The Inquisition, at least this newborn one, was a tiny bunch of people. Yet he couldn’t help the stab of envy at how quickly they had managed to establish it as a legitimate, or mostly legitimate, organization. The mages at Ostwick had spent months looking for options. It certainly helped to have a writ from the Divine, and apparently enough funding put aside to get all this up and running. He had no idea what a Left Hand of the Divine’s duties had been, but under the Inquisition Leliana was the spymaster. The two new faces were Commander Cullen - whom he had already supposedly met, little as he remembered of that, and Lady Josephine Montilyet as ambassador and diplomat. Quite fittingly, she immediately offered condolences on the loss of his friends.

And then there was him, the Herald of Andraste. He had almost snorted when they told him that people had decided the woman in the rift behind him had been Andraste, and that she had saved him. That explained the whispers on his way to the chantry, at least. They had also let people believe that. His mother would probably love it.

They stood around the table in silence, the four others with determined expressions on their faces and him still quite lost.

“You must be hungry,” Cassandra threw him something that almost qualified as an amused look.

“Actually, I think I need a bath first,” Ray said. “And a razor.”

“We can have things brought to your quarters or, if you prefer, there is the bathhouse,” Lady Montilyet suggested. Ray wondered what these ‘things’ would be. A bucket and a cloth? The south was not famous for washing.

“Bathhouse sounds fine,” he replied.

“Would you mind showing Lord Trevelyan, Commander? I will send servants.”

Ray followed Cullen out of the chantry and the houses around it. After some minutes they reached a low wooden building, with four cauldrons in front of it. Opening the door, Cullen spoke.

“There is no one at this hour, it will take a while.”

They stepped in. The south was not famous for its bathhouses either. Admittedly, this was also a village in the mountains. A far cry from the former Tevinter fortress the Circle had been housed in. This bathhouse consisted of two dozens sawed off casks, aligned around a deep gutter line in the floor, for the wastewater. The place was also freezing, since presumably nobody had used it at least since the night before. The floor was paved though, it wouldn’t be hard to make some fire. Or better not, they had avoided fire glyphs on the floor even at the castle.

“As I was saying, Lord Tre…”.

“I am not a lord.” Ray cut him off, starting to unbutton his coat. This person of all should know that. The vambraces with the sword of mercy spoke loudly enough.

“Herald.” Cullen corrected himself, and Ray suppressed a sigh. In hindsight, ‘lord’ had been better. He threw his coat on a nearby bench.

“Are you going to stand there and keep watch?”

“What? No!” Cullen exclaimed. “It’s just going to take a while to heat the water. I’m waiting to help with the cauldron, the elves…”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ray made two well-practiced movements with his hand. The first had water sloshing into a cask, the second left it steaming. Cullen jumped slightly, Ray noticed with some amusement. The man had sounded like he was tired of the Chantry and its nonsense, but old habits were hard to get rid of. He wondered what life had been like, wherever Cullen had been stationed before the rebellion. During the last year it had become the norm in the castle to do whatever possible with magic, but even before that templars would mostly turn a blind eye on something like that. Especially once he had been made enchanter. Only occasionally would one walk in on him and point out that they hadn’t seen Tranquil carrying hot water, and he would just shrug and tell them to look harder next time.

“Maker! You’re not supposed to use magic for things like that, are you?”

“Oh? Are _you_ going to instruct me on the usage of magic?”

“No. Of course not.” The templar sighed. He still continued standing there though, maybe looking for an out. That came in the form of an elf carrying towels, clothes and toiletries.

Once both had left, Ray undressed and unfastened the bandages. As suspected, there were no deep wounds, just bruises and scorch marks. He grabbed his staff and healed as much as he could. It still smarted when he lowered himself into the water. With forehead leaning on his bent knees he thought of his room at the castle, and the proper bathtub there. He wasn’t going back there now, maybe not ever. Neither did he want to, not by himself. This was not how things were supposed to go. They knew they would be walking into a war, but not like this. _We are on our own. Perhaps forever._ But the Seeker was missing her Chantry, for all the good it had done in the last year, or the years before. Or the five hours of Conclave, for what that was worth now. And here he was, working with them. Even worse, working for what had given birth to the templars.

There was the hole in the sky. That was worth staying for, as was finding who the one behind the explosion was. Whoever the figure had been, however, he had been a mage. Whether he was dead or had escaped through the Fade, once this had been dealt with, they would clamp down on mages again, just like after Kirkwall. There was no winning this, it seemed. Perhaps at the end of it, if alive, he would finally take his mother’s advice and get out.

Ray splashed water on his face to wash away the tears, now as much of anger as they were of grief. He reheated the water and forced himself to finish his bath and shave before someone else walked in to throw themselves to the floor.

One look at the clothes the servant had brought was enough to make him put on his old ones again. At least they weren’t all puffy, bulging around straps everywhere. The shirt seemed to compensate for them, made of the minimal amount of fabric. He had only seen a contraption like that at the Circle, for when apprentices were still at risk of setting their sleeves on fire. Even the peasants in Ostwick had better fashion sense. Still, the clothes were good for something, and that was a strap for his hair. He wondered if he had enough control over his spells now to dry it. He combed fingers through the ends first, but it seemed fine, so he went through all of it and tied it up loosely at the nape of his neck. Holding up the shaving mirror had been easy, but tipping the cask of water into the groove turned out to be quite a bit more challenging and a lot of it ended up on the floor until it was light enough for him to move around as he willed it. He couldn’t figure out the mark, rift-closing properties aside. It seemed to have the potential for making his spells more potent, but anything that required a smidgen more focus came off much harder.

There wasn’t a crowd waiting for him to come out of the bathhouse at least, just a few villagers. It seemed most of the people had gone back to whatever they did for living. Maybe they were woodcutters, or miners, or whatever there was to do in such a climate. He asked a villager about Cullen’s whereabouts, there was no point in starting by antagonizing the commander of the Inquisition’s forces.

* * *

Ray had meant well, to assure the man about whatever he needed to be less jumpy, or even to apologize. That had gone out of the window when Cullen had began his life story by mentioning he had been a templar in Kirkwall during the uprising four years prior. They had taken in a few mages fleeing the Kirkwall Circle, as it had been known in Ostwick. Its name had been The Gallows in Kirkwall. The stories had been more terrifying than those of Blight refugees. 

“The templars should have restored order.” On and on again with that restoring order business, and how awful not restoring it had been. That order had meant the Annulment of the Circle had obviously slipped between the cracks. He considered for a moment killing the man there and then. Cullen had supposedly left the templars, but whether he was still on lyrium or not didn’t matter now. He could easily kill a templar. Too bad he had little affinity for entropy, it wouldn’t even leave a corpse. That line of thinking got his mind back on the remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes and only the constant noise of the recruits’ swords kept him from slipping from reality. At least they didn’t seem to be training as templars. Cullen was going on into some enthusiastic ramble and Ray sighed. It wasn’t as if he was expecting a written apology from a templar.

He turned to concealed needling, but the man didn’t do sarcasm. In the end he left him with some vague innuendo, which probably left him looking silly, but Cullen got to enjoy being jumpy _and_ uncomfortable. Who would have guessed, yet another day he wasn’t making friends with templars. Or ex-templars. Cullen was like Cassandra - they just wanted to return things to how they had been. No wonder she had been the one to recruit him.

He was already back in the village when he remembered that he hadn’t asked about where to get more bandages and some salve. The chantry would be a decent bet, and the building was at least visible from afar. He was on his way there when he spotted Varric.

Ray hadn’t made the connection when the dwarf had introduced himself before, hadn’t even thought the name familiar. Varric was standing by a fire, his shirt still open. He looked up as Ray approached.

“So, now that Cassandra is out of earshot, are you holding up all right? I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful.” Varric shook his head. “Most people would have spread that over more than one day.”

“It has been more than a few days,” Ray could still feel some lingering snappiness in his voice. He couldn’t do the whole lifting your spirits with humor thing, or at least not with how things were now.

“Believe me, you didn’t miss much. Clearing up bodies, giant pyres, cries and prayers to the Maker.” The dwarf sighed, squatted and started prodding at the firewood. “You saw what was left of the temple… Maker, I hate explosions. But those people we saw at the rift… they were your friends? Do you want to do something, like a service?”

“We didn’t do funerals at the Circle.” While rarely of illness, some mages would die of old age like anyone else, or even in a sanctioned battle. Most, however, went missing in other ways - Harrowings, suicides, escapes or attempts at it. Or just end up sent someplace one day, for all sorts of reasons. They had always tried to be too good to be sent away, although sometimes being too good was just as bad as not being good enough. If it hadn’t been for his name and his mother’s connections and money, he might have lost his friends years ago, simply for them being too close for the comfort of the templars. And now they were gone, as soon as they had jumped into this mess again. There was little force behind his words when he spoke again. “That won’t bring them back.”

“Nothing ever does,” Varric looked up from where he was squatting. The height difference was begging to feel weird, so Ray sat down on a snow-covered log. “You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going.”

It had been a bit of a wonder that Varric Tethras’ _Tale of the Champion_ had found its way into the Ostwick Circle, even if a bit late. His other books hadn’t. Then again dead Qunari made for a compelling argument. Varric himself didn’t seem too happy to elaborate on some of the inconsistencies, but at least said a word or two about what the heroes were up to nowadays.

“So you were actually there for the whole thing?”

“Not just for it. I’m from there. Born and raised in Kirkwall. And despite whatever you’ve heard, no. Kirkwall’s not that bad.” Since Ray hadn’t heard a good thing about Kirkwall in his life, definitions probably varied.

“It has been four years and you still have just a provisional viscount though, right?”

“You seem to know about it. I take it Ostwick isn’t particularly happy about everything that went down?”

“Templars enacting martial law next door was probably what did it for us in the end.” There had been the uprisings of course, but those had mostly concerned the mages. At the following First Day ball that Ray had been to most of the people had seemed relieved and hopeful that things were going to work out, now that it was over. That hadn’t happened, obviously, and Kirkwall remained a tangled mess. At the negotiations with the teyrn it had been hinted at the possibility of Ostwick getting involved.

They talked about the red lyrium at the temple for a while. Varric had warned people to stay away from it, and that had seemed like a very dwarven thing to say. Of course they were going to stay away from it, it was raw lyrium. Still, there seemed to be more to it than that, but neither knew what its significance in the current happenings was. Nothing good, according to Varric at least.

“Since you’re a writer, do you have anything to write with? I wanted to write some letters.” He would rather not send lead pencil scribbles.

“You are welcome to my portable ink pot anytime, but since you actually mean to send the letters as well, I suggest you take that up with Josephine. Lady Montilyet. She’s at the chantry.”

Since that had been his original destination for bandages anyway, Ray took his leave.

* * *

“Ah, Lord Trevelyan!” The ambassador raised her head from the letter she was writing, smiling. “You look refreshed after your bath.” More like not looking like a lost wanderer with his hair stuck with sweat and grime and a week’s growth of beard. If Lady Montilyet noticed him wearing his old clothes, she didn’t comment on it. He refrained from mentioning Orlesian puffed sleeves as well, once he noticed hers. While not puffed up in an Orlesian fashion, they consisted entirely of bunched up fabric. He greeted and went straight to business.

“I was wondering if I could write some letters, to the mages in Ostwick and to my mother. Unless all of this is a secret.”

“Of course. The Breach is hardly a secret, but at this point most of Thedas thinks it more of a hoax. As for the Inquisition, our intentions are actually to spread word as far as we can.” The ambassador pointed him at another table to his right and angled a new candle to light from the one on her desk. She fastened it to a wooden board that also carried an ink pot and a quill, and stood up to bring them to him.

He wasn’t so sure what he should write, or how much into detail he ought to go. Him being alive, for one. People probably already knew about everyone else being dead. His friends being dead, that was something more for the mages. His mother had known about their friendship for years and yet had never once invited them to the estate. The only way to invite them, without pulling strings, would have been as entertainers and performers, and no mage had been invited as such ever since his magic had manifested. Then there was the whole Herald of Andraste thing. That was actually something on which he would want his mother’s advice. She knew how to coddle and skirt the Chantry at the same time.

“If I may say so,” Lady Montilyet interrupted his pondering. “While you could write proper letters, those will take some days to arrive. If you could use these instead,” she placed down two papers the size of a palm, “we can send a bird and have them delivered by the evening.”

That solved a lot of problems. Just the facts, as little as he knew of them, in a few short, dry sentences. His correspondence was not going to stay private anyway, so it was pointless to write his take on everything.

“Is that what the raven in my room is for?”

“Oh, yes, in a manner of speaking. He is to follow your party once you venture out of Haven, in case you have need for urgent communication. His name is Baron Plucky and he is Leliana’s cleverest and,” here the ambassador nearly grinned, “most capricious raven. Rumor is she controls him with blood magic.”

Ray did a double take at the casual blood magic joke. That people would simply throw in something like that in conversation while mages feared even thinking about it. That probably explained the dragon staff.

“She placed him in your quarters so he could get used to you.” Obviously the raven was in the very early stages of getting used to him.

He dipped the quill in the pot and Lady Montilyet went back to her chair. Having taken in hew whole outfit for the first time, he could finally pin the style on the map.

“Montilyet did sound familiar. You’re from that Antivan trading family.” He had probably played on a Montilyet ship’s deck at one time or another before he had to stop playing on any ships at all.

“We once sent entire fleets across the Waking Sea. These days our vessels are a touch more modest.” Lady Montilyet’s smile was wistful. Ray supposed having the vice-admiral of the Ostwick fleet for a father did help the Trevelyan trading ships traverse the Waking Sea. All the unrest in the past few years had significantly increased the numbers of pirates.

“We still go to all the parties in the north, of course,” the ambassador smiled. “Your great-aunt Lucille throws the most famous summer balls in the region, I am surprised I haven’t seen you at any of them.”

Three or four seconds passed in an awkward silence before Lady Montilyet spoke again.

“Please forgive me, my lord, I didn’t think.” Ray smiled slightly. It had been pretty nice actually, being called ‘lord’ and expected to be at summer parties.

“It’s all right. I did go home for First Day every year and for a few weddings.” They might have been at the same wedding, perhaps, less so to a First Day ball. Those were more of a family matter, and fittingly enough having a few dozens templars at a gathering had been when they had found out about his magic. He liked going home, but the anniversary wasn’t a joyous one.

Ray started writing his notes in the dim light of the candle and for a few minutes neither spoke. Without thinking, he dried the ink with a wave of his hand and a thin layer of fire that slid just above the surface of the paper. No exclamation like Cullen’s followed, so he raised his eyes to the ambassador. She _was_ staring and startled at being caught doing it. He stood up and walked to her table to hand her the notes.

“It is just a simple convenience spell… not dangerous.”

“Oh, I have seen mages at court, but I must admit they were more about the spectacle, and less about making writing letters more convenient. A loss for diplomacy,” she smiled at him. “I should thank you for your patience with the simple quarters, I will arrange for some writing utensils to be placed there as well.”

“Don’t worry about me. Haven’s more than livable.” The ambassador’s cabinet was actually less so. There were a few candles in the room and the place smelled nicely of wax, but it was still decidedly dark. As well as small and cold. “This can’t be what _you’re_ accustomed to, Ambassador. Wouldn’t even one of the wooden hovels make for a more comfortable workplace?”

“Unfortunately one must maintain appearances, and the chantry is the only building in this mountain suited for reception, it seems.” Lady Montilyet’s expression was a pretty candidly unhappy one. “Stories of you are already spreading and it will not be long until we have our first visiting dignitaries. If it were up to me, the moment it was safe we’d relocate to Val Royeaux.”

The ambassador was easy to talk to. It made sense, with her role being that of a diplomat, not that Ray had met many. The negotiators the teyrn had chosen for their meetings had been grim and old. Maybe for the sake of making the teyrn himself appear younger and more cheerful, though without much success. Ray had to remind himself that the man had still been quite benevolent and willing to cooperate even without a hole in the sky. When it came to the Inquisition, he wasn’t sure he was buying what Lady Montilyet was selling. Still, the banter was pleasant, and even peace and order didn’t sound bad coming from someone who had little to do with the war. She also thought life at the mages’ castle more refined than what the reality of it was. Ray indulged her with the tale of how they had filled time replacing all windows with stained glass, and omitted the one about keeping hens in the courtyard for the sake of occasionally having eggs for breakfast. He also ended up pulling up a small wisp that drowned the candles’ weak light, to further demonstrate how magic made writing letters more pleasant. 

He had to leave her to her work at some point, and Lady Montilyet called on a servant to show him to the healer’s cabin. He left the wisp with her, on the table he’d been using, under a glass bowl and occupied with his Harrowing ring.

* * *

“Look who’s back from the dead. Again.”

Adan turned out to be an alchemist rather than a healer, and quite unhappy with the necessitated change in vocation. Ray couldn’t fault him, he himself enjoyed mixing dangerous concoctions more than healing potions. He did end up preparing his own salve, and promised to bring whatever useful plants he came upon. Though the thought was not unappreciated, Ray found himself being almost kicked out - in the friendliest of manners Adan could muster, to go get on with “fixing the world”. Staring at the now closed door to the alchemist’s cabin, he shook his head and smiled.

“The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.” Ray spun around and found himself looking into the familiar face of Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7/14/2016 - Fixed some lore regarding Kirkwall having provisional viscount Bran.


	5. Chapter 5

_9 Kingsway, 9:41_

Haven’s fenced encampment had grown quiet within an hour of Cullen hammering the Inquisition’s declaration to the chantry’s doors. Villagers and pilgrims alike had ventured out to gather materials for weapons and uniforms, mostly from the upturned carts that littered the roads. Some rifts yet remained, and people avoided them steering a wide berth around them, but they had gone dormant much like the Breach had. The bravest had gone to the temple, bodies now cleared by the soldiers, to scavenge the melted remains of swords and staves.

As clueless as any of them were, something to rally around gave them the hope they needed. Of course, there was the Herald of Andraste, the focus of their hope and reverence. Cassandra had personally come to inform Solas about the events and to ask him to stay and assist, and she had appeared significantly more accepting of an apostate. He had been threatened with execution and just short of being deemed a crazy knife-ear, but threats and mistrust had been seemingly tossed away, and he wasn’t about to bring them back up. The important thing was that they had someone who was likely holding the key to closing the Breach, as little as they knew of just how he had come in its possession. Had something in the mage’s arcane focus interfered with the artifact that had caused the explosion? That seemed unlikely given how much the mark’s connection to the Fade jarred with the mage’s own. Still, Trevelyan had managed to get enough of it under control to calm the Breach after a couple of tries amidst the battle, even if barely so. Solas had felt the Veil around them twisting, trying to accommodate the mage’s manipulation while being erratically pulled at all sides.

He ascended the stairs to the cabin they had given him, lost in thoughts on how to proceed, and saw Trevelyan standing in front of Adan’s door.

“The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.” Solas hadn’t meant it as a joke, he didn’t know what the man believed about himself. A joke was what Trevelyan seemed to take it for though, replying in kind. It was perhaps too soon for a well acted smile, or for a hero. Comforting, in a way. Solas did not wish for a demigod. A loud rumble coming from the Herald’s stomach elicited a much more genuine smile.

“Um… sorry about that. I thought I’d be able to wait until lunch. Do you know where I can get some food?” The mage’s face was thinner than Solas remembered it from when he had first seen him, and the stubble from days ago was no longer there to obscure the angles either. It had been a week of water and elfroot drops for the man, and it was not as if the Fade could sustain him. At least he didn’t look tired, but then again he had been unconscious or asleep for most of the week.

“I will show you to the tavern,” Solas gestured for the mage to follow, which he promptly did with some mumbled thanks. All eyes were on them on their way there, as were those of the people in the tavern, once Solas opened the door for Trevelyan to enter. Everyone went quiet almost immediately until a woman cheered and others joined her, awe and reverence relaxed from the ale. Luckily, Trevelyan didn’t appear about to bolt out, though he didn’t seem to acknowledge the exaltations any more than he did the staring. The bard, having gone silent with the rest, resumed picking the strings of her lute. One of the maids behind the bar rushed to greet them. There was nothing relaxed about her, maybe because she didn’t have the option to simply cheer from the sides. Trevelyan managed to order something to eat after she had introduced herself as Flissa and given, in a rushed and wavering voice, a wholehearted assurance that she was all for the mage rebellion. Then she hurriedly fluttered away.

“Will you join me?” Trevelyan’s voice was lower than it had been seconds earlier, and more desperate than cordial.

“Thank you. I will.”

They sat down and Solas slid across the still empty table the small box in which he had placed the Dalish twig. With no explanation given, Trevelyan took the box, sadness replacing his puzzled expression once he opened it.

“I didn’t even think of that, or of seeing it again.” He took out the branch and glided a finger over it. “Elonna did some for all of us before the Conclave. Thank you for keeping it safe.”

It was a crude and graceless thing, dead the moment it had been snapped off a tree. Even if magic had kept it from decay for a while, that was gone now, and the leaves had started to shrivel, their color dulled. Solas had seen the elven woman in the vision below the Breach, though there hadn’t been Vallaslin on her face.

“I was surprised to see Dalish magic on a Circle mage. Did she live with them for a while?” He had wandered many paths, and sometimes met elven mages from the cities, who had fled to a nearby clan to seek acceptance, sometimes even to find it.

“She was Dalish, the First to their clan’s Keeper. They tried to outrun the Blight, in Ferelden, and a hunter managed to save her and bring her to Ostwick.” Trevelyan shook his head. “Ostwick is small, there are no huge abandoned forests, not even in the mountains. The templars caught her almost immediately, she was only fifteen.”

That would explain blood writing missing from her face, she had never reached adulthood while with her clan. Solas didn’t know whether to count her lucky or not. The Dalish feared the Fade even more than Circle mages were taught to, but at least they were respectful towards magic.

“Did she even attempt to learn _your_ magic?” His voice must have come out harsher, for Trevelyan put the branch back into the box, closed the lid shut and looked at him in confusion.

“Did you lose your clan?”

“No.” Solas bristled at the suggestion. “But I have crossed path with the Dalish on more than one occasion. I offered to share knowledge, only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition.”

“Oh… It’s just that there is a mage at the chantry who got abandoned by the Dalish. Elonna didn’t have much choice in what to study. Though they didn’t try to make her Andrastian, at least. She was regretful that she wouldn’t get to learn any more Dalish magic, there weren’t any books on that in the Circle, not beyond general descriptions.”

Solas directed his eyes to the box. That elf could have learned to do it properly, and a lot more, and it seemed it hadn’t occurred to her even once.

“I could teach that to you, if you would like.” 

“You could? She tried to, a couple of times, but apparently I just didn’t _know_ trees.”

“Ah,” Solas sometimes forgot the time frames these mages worked with. From what Cassandra had mentioned, Trevelyan had enjoyed maybe a year of relative freedom after he’d been taken to the Circle. The Dalish mage had only had a few more. With that in mind, maybe even her simple spell deserved some approbation. “Then sadly, I suspect she was correct.”

Flissa spared him further unpleasant discussion about the Dalish when she brought to the table some toasted bread, thinly sliced ham and two bronze goblets filled with red wine. Trevelyan had thrown a glance to the side the moment he had heard the clank of metal approaching from behind, before seemingly remembering where he was and shifting his eyes back to Solas. He didn’t appear scared, it seemed more like force of the habit. Maybe the memory of templars always watching had become vaguer over the last year, or maybe the staff propped against the wall gave him enough confidence. The latter certainly instilled no confidence in Flissa, who was as nervous as she had been before.

When she had gone back, Trevelyan took a sip from his goblet and made a face.

“Not a good vintage?” That the Herald had been served wine already spoke volumes, the awful ale at the tavern having been judged for what it was. Solas hardly expected the wine to be much better. It was not, as he soon found out for himself.

“Frankly I couldn’t tell,” Trevelyan let out something that was almost a chuckle. “I don’t drink much and often, but it does seem worse than even what we made, and that’s a low bar.”

“You made wine at the Circle?” A bunch of drunk mages seemed exactly what templars wouldn’t want to have.

“Not when it was still the Circle, though we made pure alcohol for some potions. The Tranquil brewed some for special occasions, and we would sometimes manage to sneak something out from under them. We made our own after that, nothing quite like making wine and ale to get the Creation and Entropy schools to work together.” Trevelyan bit into some bread layered with ham, and despite his obvious hunger, chewed slowly and thoroughly. “It was pretty vile, the stuff we made. We’d peddled all the runes the Tranquil had been using, well, sold pretty much everything we could do without, really.”

“It must have been hard, yet you speak fondly of it.” Trevelyan’s eyebrows rose up slightly.

“It was the best year of my life. The winter was somewhat bad, but once it was over, things got better. The people who wanted to leave, had left. The villagers around us knew some of the healers already, they warmed up quickly. We helped with crops some, kept the roads safe, and they gave us some food. The templar hunts got rarer, we got into the teyrn’s good graces. It was fine, really. As long as there was to be no Exalted March, we would do with the arrangements we had.” He sighed. “And then we had to come here.”

“What is keeping you here now? Being the Herald of Andraste?” To that Trevelyan snorted and mumbled something. “Revenge?”

“A bit of that,” Trevelyan swallowed and his brows furrowed. “Not that I would know against whom exactly, and they might be dead already. Also, I gather you are not a from a Circle, but you get used to losing there. Revenge is often the first thought, but if you make it the first act, you’re dead or worse.”

Solas took a slice of the ham while the other mage finished his piece of bread and started piling ham on another, wine forgotten at his side.

“I thought about going back, when I still believed my friends alive,” Trevelyan bit in, chewing faster now to speak again. “Leliana said I could go, if I wished to. But, true enough, the Breach and the rifts are a threat. Running away won’t do anyone a favor, least of all me or the mages in Ostwick.”

For better or worse the Herald had little left to lose. His own life, likely, if what Solas had in mind could be arranged.

“I will stay then, at least until the Breach has been closed.” He had to fix the hole in the sky before it doomed both this world and the Fade.

“Was that in doubt?”

“I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion.” Solas looked pointedly at Trevelyan’s hand. “And I do not have a holy mark to protect me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.” 

“You risked your freedom to help.” And he held little confidence in being given his due if he were to get on the wrong side of these people for too long.

“Not the wisest course of action when framed that way. You risked - and you lost, by coming here yourself. Did you believe that the Conclave could achieve peace?” The templars, being the organization they were, one founded on the fear of magic, had gone to war to force mages back into the Circles, and mages wouldn’t have that. “Were you hoping for a compromise? Or that the templars would relent?”

“We knew it was bad in many places outside of Ostwick.” Trevelyan finally took another sip pf his wine. “But not how bad it really was. After a few hours at the Conclave, Nicole - she was the one who was to speak before them, she looked the most disheartened I’d seen her since… well, she looked about to cry. She had a Spirit of Ardor friend, you don’t get one of those by losing determination. So no, we had no great hopes for the Conclave. We thought we had a solution and a compromise, but it wouldn’t have seemed such to many of the people there. At most we hoped the Chantry would finally speak on it.” He sighed. “And then go home and just do something to try to stay above water.”

A spirit of Ardor was a powerful, and a rare one. There was far more sloth and apathy in the world for spirits to observe and learn from than there were zest and enthusiasm.

“Did she meet this spirit wandering the Fade?”

“Well, yes, obviously. But they also tended to flock to her, as it seems sometimes happens with spirit healers. She met this one when she was thirteen, though we would joke it was a spirit of pranking. She did put a lot of passion into that at the time. We planned to go into the Fade to meet it, her, but never scraped up enough lyrium for that. But it was a her to Nicole.” Trevelyan frowned. “If people saw a woman at the rift, I would think it more likely for that to have been the spirit rather than Andraste.”

It seemed a more believable theory compared to the one the faithful had. The blond woman, Nicole, had looked about the same age as the Herald, a spirit might have developed some attachment to him in fifteen or so odd years. Maybe the healer had already been dead and beyond salvation. Solas thought about the demon at the Breach. It had been a powerful one as well, but twisted and crazed from the pull into the Waking world. It had carried itself with the last vestiges of Pride, not Sloth, but he couldn’t be sure. Even the demon hadn’t known what it was anymore. Solas hadn’t known that spirit of Ardor, even Trevelyan hadn’t really known her, and he likely wouldn’t appreciate Solas voicing his thoughts on the matter anyway.

“You still remember nothing else from your trip into the Fade?” He asked instead.

Trevelyan shook his head. “Less, actually. The memory was gone almost immediately after waking up… now I remember my thoughts on it more than anything else. It was strange, I hadn’t forgotten a dream in two decades, but then it turns out it wasn’t one. Of course, it’s not like I make a habit of forgetting events for which I am awake either.”

“Sometimes the mind buries what it cannot endure.” Unlike Cassandra, Solas didn’t really have any reason to suspect Trevelyan of hiding the truth from him.

“Maybe,” the mage sighed. “I remember nothing from before either, not even walking in on that ritual we saw. Maybe we were captured and used in the ritual, and this,” Trevelyan looked at the mark on his palm, “is something that was put there. Maybe they made me do something, after they escaped.” His last words were barely audible, and not something the mage would tell Cassandra. Trevelyan had good reason to doubt his own protection against mind control, but Solas didn’t hold the scenario for likely.

“I doubt that. The Breach was caused by immense power, and while we don’t know what your mark is, it is more of a conduit, a link. Leliana’s people have scoured the area near the blast for the artifact that created the Breach, and found nothing.”

“What if it fell into the Fade?”

“It is unlike anything seen in this age. The spirits at the Breach couldn’t even recreate what it looked like, so strange it must have appeared to them. Something like that would be easy to find in the Fade, by the interest it would garner from everyone around it. You have seen that happen with your mark, too. The spirits pressing at the Veil to have a glimpse at it, until the Breach scared them away.”

“So that’s why all the attention,” Trevelyan reexamined the mark. “I’ve attracted my fair share of spirits and demons by practicing magic in the Fade, but the last few days were so crowded, I could barely make sense of the scenery, let alone control any of it.”

“Why deliberately attract them by using magic?”

“It was the only place I could practice anything more noticeable while I was still hiding it. Then in the Circle templars would meddle and interrupt whenever they pleased.” Trevelyan shrugged. “I wasn’t defenseless in the Fade, and I’d mostly cleared out a spot for myself anyway.”

“You got your magic under control by yourself?” Erratic as the mage’s spells had been with the mark interfering, Solas could tell that Trevelyan had a good affinity for the elements. His writings had also been quite adventurous, although they tended to stretch the limits of technical ingenuity while still subsisting on a mere trickle of the Fade, a system of levers and pulleys where a torrent should be.

“Almost made it to a year before they found me out. I scoured the estate library for whatever I could find on magic. It would have run dry given a couple more months, but well, I got careless.”

That must have been a stroke of luck in the current world. And while clearing out a spot and staying put seemed like the most mundane and uninspired of ways to interact with the Fade, it required a fair bit of skill and control over one’s dreams. A decade or two at the same place might have made things easier as far as the Circle went, but Trevelyan had apparently done this as a child within months as well.

Solas let the mage have a go at obliterating the rest of the food on the table, and spoke of some of his own travels through the Fade. He hadn’t had a willing listener in some time, and the change was refreshing. Trevelyan hadn’t wandered the Fade too much, or made any friends there, and was quite enraptured and impressed by his tales. That Solas had learned his magic from spirits took him by confused surprise. His circle had firmly established that spirits - or demons, as one might expect, had nothing but blood magic to teach. He seemed suitably wary about the creatures of the Fade, and their place in the world, but he was not totally clueless and he certainly didn’t attack, not even verbally. Solas supposed things could have been worse, had it been a templar to walk in on the ritual. By the time he concluded his stories on the nature of spirits and demons, there wasn’t any food left.

“I have seen some of that. Of twisting spirits and demons.” This time he didn’t need the wine to pull a face. “My mentor taught me how to construct a Harrowing. Making it is about as enjoyable as going through it.”

Solas thought of the wisp trapped between the spells on Trevelyan’s book and fought back the urge to voice his distaste. He had needed little time to figure out what those mages on the run referred to as the Harrowing. Many had refused to talk about it, more so if he’d come to them as an apostate who had never undertaken it. Nobody had told him of just how it was done, but then again he’d had no need to ask.

“Your Circle teaches you to fear the Fade. You could be much more powerful if you ventured outside your narrow preconceptions.” Trevelyan gave him an astonished stare, then laughed.

“Feel free to take any protection my mark could extend to you. You may need it.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the thought.”

They made to leave after a few minutes, with only some wine left in Trevelyan’s goblet. Solas remained by the table, as did the dragon staff, while the other mage went to the bar to pay for the food and wine. The tavern was too noisy to hear what he was saying to Flissa, but by the way she suddenly paled, it might have well been an order to jump into the Breach. The other woman behind the bar got involved as well, nudging her, and Flissa’s face was turning progressively redder, until the blush had completely overtaken her. She turned back to the rack on the wall, and Trevelyan walked back to the table. He picked up his staff and the goblet.

“Um, Flissa is going to cut my hair.” He drank the rest of the wine, so the frown that followed might have been as much due to that as to his mood. “It’s not meant as a statement.”

If Trevelyan was expecting a rebuke, Solas wasn’t sure what to tell him. He should have spoken his condolences sooner, in hindsight. He had been more relieved that the mage had survived after calming the Breach, and was willing to cooperate again.

“It’s… they liked my hair long, I could stand for it being a bit shorter.” Trevelyan fiddled a bit with the staff, then turned around abruptly and followed Flissa through the side door. Solas considered going to his cabin to sleep, but since Trevelyan’s hadn’t been a very articulated parting, he decided to follow instead.

* * *

The tavern’s garden was obviously not being used during this time of the year, tables and benches covered with inches of snow. Flissa had brushed some away, and laid a blanket over the end of a bench. Trevelyan’s coat was over his knees, and he was playing with the collar while looking ahead absentmindedly. Solas wondered whether giving that particular task to Flissa had been a wise idea. Her hands were shaking badly enough while she was wetting Trevelyan’s hair with a sponge, and it only got worse once she picked up the scissors. Honor and responsibility hung heavy on her shoulders. Getting started on another conversation about spirits would likely not do anything calming to the woman, so Solas chose to remain silent and just observe.

“How… how short would you like to have it?” She picked just the ends of Trevelyan’s hair.

“Yours is a good length. Don’t worry too much about it.”

“Maybe I should go look for Ellaine? She cuts my hair, she would know…”

“It will be fine.” There was an air of finality to the Herald’s words, and Flissa visibly braced herself before opening the scissors around his hair and making the first cut.

Luckily, she took her time cutting through the back of Trevelyan’s hair. By the time she actually got to his head, her hands were a lot steadier, and things seemed to be working out nicely. It didn’t take her more than ten minutes after the initial stupor, and soon she was apologizing and running off to get a mirror. Trevelyan noticeably waited until the footsteps hit wooden floor, then combed a hand through his hair, drying it. He was turning around when Solas swept first fire, then a gust of wind across the scattered hairs on the ground. Only some traces of fine ash remained on the snow. Trevelyan’s mouth curled.

“You are… precise.”

“I did not wish to make a pond of it. As you would not wish for your hair to be sold in amulets by the end of the day.”

“I had not thought of that.” Solas thought the long hair had given more of an authoritative impression, but the haircut suited Trevelyan. “Could you call me Ray? Or Trevelyan, or anything? Just not Herald, it is too strange.”

That would certainly extend some of the protection Trevelyan wished to offer. Posturing was necessary, however, especially from what little respect he had witnessed first hand mages were given.

“I will, when the circumstances allow it.” Flissa flew back into the garden, breathing heavily and carrying a small mirror. She didn’t even notice the hairs on the ground being gone, so stunned was she by Trevelyan’s dry hair. She simply stood there, and only moved again when the mage asked for the mirror. Solas excused himself while Flissa was finishing up by cutting some stray hairs.

“Are you going to look for new areas in the Fade?” Trevelyan might have been more interested in that part of the conversation that Solas had thought. But he could imagine two decades in the same place would make one curious for what else there was. The mage was still not likely to dive right in and start exploring.

“Yes. I hope your dreams become less crowded soon.”

“I do hope that! And I wish you luck.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

Cassandra tore him out of the Fade, standing in the door’s frame and looking vaguely apologetic. The light in the cabin was softer now, the snowy hills beyond the village colored by the setting sun behind the Seeker’s silhouette.

“Solas, have you seen the Herald?”

“Not in the last few hours.”

The Seeker looked a fair bit sour, but just as worried as well. “He has been missing for a while and it’s about to get dark. I suppose now I have to look for him and hope he isn’t buried under snow somewhere.”

He raised from the chair he had been sleeping in and followed her outside.

“Leliana told me about your idea,” Cassandra looked at him, obviously not overly happy with the plan. “Is there no other way?”

“It is the most logical approach, and the one most likely to work. I am always open to suggestions.”

Cassandra nodded wearily, and made to leave when she suddenly turned to him anew. “Please pay a visit to Lady Montilyet. The Herald left something with her, and I am not sure it is supposed to be there.”

Slightly intrigued, Solas made his way to the chantry. He knocked on the ambassador’s door, and upon being called in, entered. His eyes immediately went to the light pulsating under a bowl on a desk along the wall. Lady Montilyet started to ask what she could to for him, but when she caught his glance, she sighed.

“I am finding great convenience with this spell, so unless it is dangerous, I would appreciate it remaining there until I am done writing these letters.”

The wisp wasn’t hitting against the glass walls, and unlike with the book, Solas couldn’t feel any lingering spells. It seemed unlikely for Trevelyan to have used blood magic to bind the spirit, not from what Solas had observed so far and certainly not in the middle of a chantry. Still, the wisp didn’t seem distressed over its summoner having wandered off hours ago. He lifted the bowl carefully, ignoring the ambassador’s startled gasp, and gestured to nudge the wisp to the side. It moved, surprisingly quite grudgingly so. Solas picked up the ring it had been residing on and smiled.

“It is not dangerous, and even the glass is not really needed,” he put the ring back on the table and the wisp, having floated up slightly, placed itself over it again, and resumed its pulsation.

“It only started doing this an hour ago. Distracting at first, but one gets used to it, like to the flickering of the fire.”

“It is singing.” Upon Lady Montilyet’s perplexed look, he explained. “I assume the ring belongs to the Herald? It is infused with lyrium. It sings to beings of the Fade, and I suppose this one started singing back eventually.”

“That is,” her laugh was a mix of nervousness and relief, “oddly endearing.”

It was. Solas wondered whether the mage had discovered this by accident, or whether Harrowing rings often served such purpose. He had never heard of it, but it seemed a kinder way to push a spirit into unwitting servitude. He placed back the bowl for the sake of Lady Montilyet’s peace of mind, and took his leave to go back to the Fade.


	6. Chapter 6

_9 Kingsway, 9:41_

Cassandra huffed in irritation. Leliana wasn’t in her usual spot and the few scouts she encountered hadn’t seen Trevelyan either. He had brought a heap of herbs to Adan early in the afternoon, and there didn’t seem to be any further sightings since. Nobody had seen him outside of the encampment either, and there were people scurrying everywhere. Haven wasn’t situated in a good place for growth, and nevertheless grown it had, once the Temple of Sacred Ashes had been uncovered and the place turned into a favored pilgrimage destination. The newer houses were scattered around the hills in small clusters, and the villagers were bringing boxes upon boxes to quartermaster Threnn. The stairs leading from her station down to the encampment gates were filled with people waiting to have their goods taken off them. They pulled aside to clear a path without being asked and Threnn spotted her.

“Seeker Pentaghast, have you seen the Herald?”

“No. I am looking for him myself.”

“Well, I sent him to look for abandoned logging stands, and it’s been a while. Need to finish this inventory before nightfall.”

Cassandra turned on her heels and marched to Threnn, the crowd swinging once again to make room.

“ _You_ sent _him_?” Adan was one thing, the man was an alchemist, a scholar. She couldn’t picture Trevelyan running errands for the quartermaster.

“Well, no, he asked what a good place for hunting was and whether we needed anything.”

Cassandra was close enough to punch Threnn and only barely restrained herself from following her impulse. A mage was not defenseless, but to walk off alone on a hunt after a week in bed was reckless. There were still stray demons prowling around, and Solas had warned her that the mark’s proximity would likely cause dormant rifts to open, as well as of it interfering with the Herald’s own casting. She pushed people aside and ran off before Threnn had finished giving directions to where Trevelyan had headed.

* * *

Luckily, she found footsteps in the snow almost immediately upon entering the grove. After briefly following them she came out to a clearing that had without a doubt met the Herald’s ire. All the snow on the ground had been melted, then frozen back into spikes, only for those to be broken, leaving jagged teeth and scattered shards. A hapless nug had found itself in the middle of it, its front half now completely stuck in the base of a spike, the other half hanging a few inches in the air. The bark of neighboring trees was charred and the lower branches bent, ice holding them stuck to the ground like spiderwebs. The only thing intact seemed to be a stone in the middle of the clearing, now covered in enough thin ice spikes to look like a disgruntled hedgehog, which was irritatingly fitting for the Herald. Or for her, she thought, vexed.

They had talked some before lunch, and at first it had seemed like a good way to dampen some of the antagonism between them. It would have been, if Trevelyan’s sole point hadn’t turned out to be more of an attempt to deepen it. He’d prod about the Maker, the Chantry, Seekers, about anything he would be of a different mind from her, then proceed to express just how much he disagreed. Cassandra had ended up telling him more about herself than she had ever told anyone she barely knew, hoping that he would be less willing to attack a person rather than an ideology. It had worked out for a while, the tale of how she had become Hero of Orlais had everything - corrupt templars, good mages, admittedly corrupt mages as well. As much as Cassandra disliked telling the story, it had seemed like a good one. Until the good mages had been sent back to their Circle, to be forgotten. It was not as if she approved of that herself, but that hadn’t factored in for the flippant ‘rather typical of the Chantry’ it had received from Trevelyan. Then everything had come to an abrupt end when he had learned that the mage child who could talk to dragons had been made Tranquil.

She went around the clearing, finding more footsteps. They meandered around groups of trees, wound back to where she’d come from, to then go in a different direction. From time to time she’d see a nug or two shuffle between the trees, tottering in the deep snow. A ram stared at her from next to a bush at some turn. She was relieved that the only signs of magic had been of Trevelyan working out anger rather than defending himself against demons.

Dusk had started to settle, and she had been walking for some time when a figure appeared beneath the trees. The figure of a druffalo. Lying horizontally. In the air. The second figure she noticed was the Herald’s, walking behind the druffalo, holding his staff and looking lost in thought, or maybe concentration. He didn’t see her walking towards him and continued carrying his game oblivious to everything else. Cassandra noticed blood dripping from the druffalo at uneven intervals, tinting the snow red. All things considered, this was comforting. He seemed unharmed, had managed to hunt some food, and was capable of bringing it back to camp. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, Trevelyan stumbled and had to burrow the blade of his staff in the snow to stay on his feet. The druffalo stayed in the air for a few moments, swaying wildly and spraying more blood. Then it fell to the ground with a soft thud. The Herald looked at it dejectedly, wiped his forehead and jumped back, immediately casting a barrier, when Cassandra spoke. 

“It was going well. But I’m not sure floating something that’s dripping blood into the village would make the best of impressions.”

“Cassandra. You startled me.” He relaxed his staff after a second.

“Don’t worry, I can defend myself should I startle you into attacking.” Perhaps it was better to avoid taunting. “I didn’t know you enjoyed hunting.”

“No, that’s not it, just…” he gestured at the druffalo and sighed. “I was looking to test some spells. Hunting is alright, had to do it for a while. It’s just that the mark is making things difficult.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have gone for a druffalo. Have you hunted them before? They can be dangerous.” He could have asked for some training dummies in an isolated place instead of going after the wildlife. They could use the meat and fur though. And he had done well to take himself away from people for his exercise in demolition.

“Yes… I had the best barrier and healing then though.” He sat on the trunk of a nearby fallen tree and nudged the druffalo with his boot. “I sniped at it from a logging stand,” he muttered.

She would have enjoyed watching the contrary mage scramble at some logs with an angry druffalo after him. He might have been more comfortable with the demon at the Breach.

“It is getting dark. Should we go back?” He harrumphed at that, and called on a wisp that illuminated the place around them, turning the blue snow white again.

“All right. It’s cold and I’m hungry.” He didn’t stand up when Cassandra turned back to the village and she wondered if that was her cue to go ahead by herself. Things weren’t going to be easy between them, and they had to close the remaining rifts around Haven and leave for the Hinterlands in at most two days. Leliana had already sent some scouts, and the reports coming in were not good. She wondered whether Trevelyan would be able to inspire goodwill and recruit more people. Admittedly he might have had some experience with goodwill in Ostwick.

Cassandra wasn’t even sure if Trevelyan would be up to the task of long days of slogging, only to rest on the hard ground beneath some tentage. Most of the mages were used to life in the open by now, life on the run, even. This one was freshly out of home. If he was going to be cold and hungry, and complaining about it, it was going to be a nuisance.

“Did you make the journey through Ferelden on foot?” The half-amazed, half-horrified stare he gave her looking up pretty much confirmed her misgivings.

“There are these things called ships, you know. The ones Ostwick does? We took one to Jader, and then a carriage on the Imperial highway. Only walked from Haven.”

Having taken the same route, Cassandra frowned. “A few latecomers in carriages passed us on our way to Haven, but I always assumed it was nobles traveling in them.” Then again there had been enough money on Trevelyan, and his clothes were neither those of a poor man, nor the more traditional robes of a mage.

“That’s what I was to be there, a recognizable name.” Trevelyan cast his eyes down and kicked at the druffalo. “Well, not entirely. My best friend was going to be the one talking before the Conclave. We… did everything together. And now she’s gone. They are gone. For your stupid Chantry.” His dejected voice changed to a spiteful hiss at the accusation. Was he really going to blindly throw guild around, hoping that would fix anything?

“The Chantry was trying to mediate a compromise! The Divine was on _your_ side!”

“The culprit of a thousand years mediating, it does sound about as ridiculous as it should have at the time.” He snickered, then rolled his eyes when Cassandra threw him a pointedly disapproving look. “The Divine might have been on our side, at least in her intentions. That was advantageous for the teyrn’s support. The Chantry under her, however, weakened the mages more than ever before. College of Magi dissolved, no gatherings, barely any travel. She helped us as much as she doomed us. And now I have to walk around and listen to everyone mourning her and her hundred clerics.” He stood up and walked around the druffalo. “I’ll rather mourn my friends.”

“The people mourn Most Holy because her Conclave was a chance for piece between mages and templars. She was the one who brought their leaders together.” Cassandra took a deep breath. “We lash out, like the sky. But we must think beyond ourselves. As she did. Until the Breach is sealed.”

“Maybe we lash out because we have good reason to? Assuming we succeed at sealing the Breach, your problems might well be solved, with a few hundred of the most prominent mages and templars gone. Of course, _you_ can always make new templars. Just think of all the recruits when you tell people what you saw at the Breach.”

Trevelyan cast again and the druffalo floated back up. It was almost obscene, Cassandra thought.

“I will stay with the Inquisition and do what I can about the Breach and the rifts. But I’m not going to stand around and be your Herald of anything while you assemble an army for your holy war.”

Word about the vision at the Breach hadn’t really gotten out. Only one of the soldiers had survived, and the archers had all been Leliana’s people.

“Should I roll it into a snowball?” The question came out of nowhere and she look at him bewildered.

“Why would you roll it into a snowball?” He didn’t reply right away, but dropped the poor beast a few inches above ground and snow flocked around it, sticking into a ball indeed.

“Well, that way it won’t be floating and dripping blood. That and I am not feeling the spell right now.” Cassandra hoped his problems with casting were a temporary result of the exhaustion from the battle at the Breach, coupled with getting used to the mark. They would need him at his best eventually, if they were to confront the Breach again to close it for good.

“You realize how ridiculous we would look rolling a huge snowball into the village, right?” He looked the slightest bit offended and disappointed, and she wondered just how much snow he had seen in his life. Ostwick likely barely got any.

“Alright then, I’ll roll it until we are at the edge of the village and melt it there.” There, she had achieved a compromise with a rebel mage. She expected him to actually start pushing the ball, but he was apparently enough in control of his casting to push it ahead with a spell. It looked almost playful, until one remembered that there was a dead druffalo being rolled inside.

Cassandra cast a side glance at Trevelyan. Another rebel mage, just to remind her that they hadn’t managed to find the other two. Truth be told, after Varric’s recount of what he claimed was Hawke’s true story, she wasn’t so sure he’d come to their aid. He was a man who had lost nearly everything, and unlikely to abandon what he still had to come running to them. Before that she had hoped they’d find him rather than Amell. Certainly, the Hero of Ferelden had united people under a common banner, but everything else about her seemed unsavory. She’d likely manage to unite the mages, she was a living legend among them. Or at least the mages who wanted to fight or to be free. No telling what that would have spelled out for the templars, but almost decidedly nothing good. 

Cassandra had seen the woman on only two occasions. Once in Leliana’s quarters, where she’d been lying on some pillows on the floor, dressed in what amounted to a towel, and drinking punch while giggling at some book. The second time she had witnessed her covered in dust and dried blood, walking through a hallway with a sword flanking each hip, a staff on her back, and enough metal on her armor to crush down someone of her build. Wardens didn’t have to abide by Chantry regulations on magic, and Amell had the reputation of someone who had taken that to heart and run wild with the idea. Blood magic was a rumor about her that resurfaced every now and then, and when Cassandra had finally confronted Leliana about it, the latter had shrugged off the question with a nonchalant ‘She knows what she’s doing.’ Not a role model by any measure. Justinia picking her as first choice had seemed ridiculous, and likely influenced by the Left Hand.

The way things had gone though, she now wished they could track her down and bring her here. This was exactly where she would have been most influential.

* * *

“It occurs to me I don’t actually know much about you.”

“Hm, I thought you knew things about me.” He appeared more fascinated with spinning the snowball so that new snow would stick to it evenly than he was in her words.

“I suppose I could ask Leliana. She has collected a frightening amount of information on you. But I don’t want to ask her. I want to hear it from you.” The information was more deduced rather than collected at this point. Leliana had insisted on approaching his family and the former Circle mages only after Trevelyan’s role with the Inquisition had been clear. They had one chance of getting on the good side of those people, and Trevelyan’s status needed to be established first. Only this morning had she sent word to her agents to start collecting information on the Herald specifically. His own notes to his family and the Circle would open doors as well.

“So what do you want to know?”

“Have you traveled around before? Senior enchanters could easily take leave, couldn’t they?”

“Not with all the restrictions your people had started putting on us, they couldn’t!” Cassandra thought it wiser to ignore the “your people” jab… and true enough, she hadn’t yet left the order at that time.

“They made me senior enchanter shortly before the College was disbanded. It was meant to help with further meetings, but as you well know there were no further meetings. I went to Val Royeaux and that’s about it.”

“We were actually surprised that you kept your ranks. It seemed that those were done with after the Circles fell.”

“It was never about that. We wanted autonomy, not starting from scratch.” He shrugged. “Even most apprentices were more comfortable with staying such for a while.”

Cassandra supposed the Ostwick mages hadn’t been doing Harrowings. The Chantry had stopped supplying mages with lyrium, and they had probably found better uses for whatever supplies they’d had. It was more worrying that the templars still seemed to have enough of it after a year of fighting. Was it reserves, corruption in the Chantry, or just enough money for a steady supply from the Carta?

“Was there no blood magic? You have a Tevinter spell against blood magic in your book.”

“It is not a spell, you could use it yourself. It’s called the Litany of Adralla, and it is only somewhat Tevinter. Adralla was a magister, but she escaped from Tevinter and wrote most of her works in Ferelden.”

“But it is still in Tevene. I was under the impression that Circles didn’t have books in Tevene.”

“Curious that you say that. The Litany is in Ancient Tevene, however there are books in actual more or less current Tevene. But all of them, including the litany, were kept in the most restricted of places in the Circle. You would think something against mind control would have been spread far and wide.” He seemed to consider for a moment. “The litany was meant for protection against phylacteries. Not finding mages with them - they knew where we were. But there have always been rumors about spells that can be performed on a phylactery to affect the mage.”

He gave her a questioning look without actually voicing his question.

“I do not know of such spells.” She stated firmly. Phylacteries were a necessary evil, but she didn’t think the Chantry would sanction any further blood magic.

“Well, that, or the litany worked.” He shrugged. “No way of knowing without actual testing, you can never be sure about the authenticity of those books. My phylactery was probably destroyed at the White Spire anyway. Still, I never observed any signs of mind control with the mages, be it by the Chantry or one of them.” He couldn’t possibly be sure about any of that. They could have still used it, and it never worked, or they could have abstained from using it simply because none would be susceptible.

“So no templars, no blood magic and no abominations?” Cassandra prodded. “It all just worked out?”

“There were two possessions in the first month, none since. One of the mages we didn’t even have to silence, she was all there along for the ride. The other one took more spells and lyrium, but both were cured in the end. Yet another thing one only gets to do when the templars are away… some possessions can be reversed.”

“And if you had failed? Would you have killed them?” She knew that mages could silence and attack other mages, but that wasn’t what it came down to. And sure enough, Trevelyan appeared hesitant.

“Probably yes, in that first month. We simply don’t know enough about possession and would risk others panicking. Rivaini mages get possessed, and some knowledge on the matter would be pretty useful. But you just had to go an annul their Circle, with the Divine on our side and all.” Cassandra didn’t really have anything to counter that. The Dairsmuid Circle had been a facade, its mages following Rivaini tradition more than what the Chantry taught. But that had also been common knowledge for ages. Trevelyan’s mocking tone turned bitter. “You just wanted to make an example of them.”

“The Chantry needs to change! That is my opinion as well, and I have said as much.” Cassandra huffed. “Mages could govern themselves, with our help.”

“Your ‘help’ has been… inadequate? I mean deadly.”

Cassandra sighed dejectedly. The Order had lost their way, there wasn’t much to bring up in their defense.

“So what did happen at the Ostwick Circle? You didn’t just ask the templars to leave, did you?”

“I am curious whether you would have left if asked to,” his laughter was sharp. “We did ask, actually. Twice. The second time the ones still alive left, about a dozen of them.”

“And the dead?”

“Well, they had already left in a way, I suppose?”

“I meant how many were there?”

“Thirty-four.”

It was hard to fathom. There had been about sixty mages, not counting apprentices, on Trevelyan’s list. Unless they had lost a lot, it seemed like too many dead templars.

“How many mages were killed?”

“Fourteen.” He paused. “Three of them apprentices.”

Cassandra could spot the fires around Haven now, and decided to finish this conversation before they had made it there. She stopped in her tracks, and Trevelyan took a few more steps before turning to look at her quizzically.

“They didn’t attack you, did they?” She spoke accusingly. “You attacked first!”

He looked at her more in surprise than anything else, enough for the whites of his eyes to fully appear around the pigeon blue irises.

“You mean we should have waited for another month to get attacked instead?” One of his crooked grins followed. “But, to answer your question, yes and no. We had been long prepared for the conflict, but we didn’t intend for it to happen when it did. There was no word from the White Spire, and we decided to secure the sending stone. _Our_ sending stone. The templars wouldn’t have that, so there you go.” The smile was gone when he continued. “We couldn’t. They knew the edge means of communication could give us, they destroyed it instead. Two senior enchanters died.”

“That’s it? You fought over a stone, you won and they left?” She couldn’t figure out how so many templars had been killed, even with the mages prepared for it, or how Ostwick had maintained order after a slaughter at the Circle. “Everybody just left you to your own devices?”

Trevelyan resumed walking, the snowball now more egg-shaped than a sphere. They started descending the hill, only minutes away from the first fires.

“There was a pathetic siege of sorts. The Circle was in a fortress, not an easy one to assault. The siege lasted for three weeks, we had food for about three months. Once the Nevarran Accord was declared null and void, and you were no longer with the Chantry, the teyrn ordered the templars to get into the city, or to get out of Ostwick. Not everyone listened, of course, and plenty wandered in from elsewhere. Tantervale’s especially were overeager to hunt mages. Too bad for them.”

It was difficult to listen. It hadn’t been the Chantry who had stepped in, just a strong ruler. Most of Thedas couldn’t count itself as lucky as Ostwick. Even Ferelden, which had been doing relatively fine, was now in flames after its rulers had invited _all_ the mages. And with the Conclave gone, they might never know if the mages could have been reasoned with.

A few steps from the nearest tents a scout approached them. Trevelyan dismissed the light and rolled the huge snowball to the side.

“Seeker Pentaghast, Sister Nightingale and the others are waiting in the war room.” ‘War room’ still made her feel uneasy, although this was, by all means, war. She just wasn’t sure about the sides and allegiances.

She nodded at Trevelyan and gestured for him to follow. He looked a bit lost, for a second. Then, in the next one, the snow around the druffalo collapsed into a whoosh of water. The scout grinned, unaffected by the display, and whistled sharply.

* * *

Cullen pushed the idea for recruiting templars to weaken the Breach and have Trevelyan seal it with his own power. Leliana, unsurprisingly, dismissed this immediately, even before Trevelyan could sneak in as much as a frown, and Cassandra had to back her up. Safer as templars may have sounded, Solas seemed the most knowledgeable on the subject, and his plan had been the opposite - enough mages to channel power through Trevelyan. Even he wasn’t sure about just how many mages would be necessary to match the power with which the Breach had been created. The more, the better, and ideally well supplied with lyrium.

Josephine handed them a few pamphlets.

“I have seen this,” Trevelyan said, looking through the declaration of the free mages of Ferelden and Orlais. “Shouldn’t be too hard to get them to cooperate, provided we don’t send templars to them.” He shot a scathing look at Cullen and Cassandra sighed. It had been too much to hope for the two to bond over their shared distaste for the Chantry, at least.

“Unfortunately we cannot approach the mages at this time. Arl Teagan has closed off as much of his lands as he can, including Redcliffe village, which was rebuilt and fortified after the Blight.” Leliana spoke. Queen Anora had offered safe harbor in Redcliffe to the rebel mages, and for a few months things had been calm. With the influx of people in wait of the Conclave, tension had been rising, and there had been a few attacks on the village itself.

“Going to Val Royeaux right now to appeal to any remaining templars might be more dangerous than dealing with the demons and rifts in the Hinterlands. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition,” Josephine turned to Trevelyan with a slight smile, “and you, specifically.” 

“That didn’t take long.” He deadpanned. 

“A mage being called ‘The Herald of Andraste’ frightens the Chantry.” Her expression had turned serious again. “The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you.”

Chancellor Roderick was working fast, and the Revered Mothers were fanning the flames instead of doing what was needed now, and worrying about the rest later. Even if they were skeptical of Trevelyan being able to close the Breach, it wasn’t as if they could do it. Telling everyone he would make it worse was folly.

For now it was better to accept the title of holy Herald, and not discourage that view from spreading. She herself wanted to believe that the Maker had sent him. A mage and a non-believer notwithstanding, he was exactly what they needed when they needed it. At least for closing the Breach. As for what came after, nobody knew what that would be. The people of Haven had accepted him, and word had spread fast. Josephine and Cullen wanted to extend the Inquisition’s reach beyond the valley, and the Herald was likely best suited for bringing people to their side.

They decided to take whatever time was needed the next day to close the rifts in Haven’s vicinity, and leave for the Hinterlands on the following morning. Taking care of the chaos on the arl’s lands seemed the best way to be granted entry into Redcliffe. Leliana also told of one Mother Giselle tending to the wounded at the Hinterlands’ Crossroads, who had requested to speak to the Herald. He shrugged and accepted without much need of convincing, which made it hard to tell whether he still had some faith in the Chantry left, or had completely given up on them.

“What do I feed Baron Plucky?”

The corners of Leliana’s lips curled up slightly. “We have already fed him for tonight, but you could look for a mouse tomorrow morning.”

“Will that make him like me better?” He genuinely seemed to care more about the raven’s approval than that of Mother Giselle.

“Oh, no,” she drawled in mock astonishment. “But it won’t make him like you less.”

The meeting obviously over, Cassandra went to eat something and then get in some practice, to make up for the afternoon walk, as well as to give herself time to wonder about where all of this was going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure about including the sending stones (similar to Dorian's in Trespasser) from _Asunder_. They are forgotten by the end of the book, when it feels that's when they should have been used. To be honest the whole war gets completely mangled by Inquisition, and I will be skipping a whole bunch of tacked on battles in the Hinterlands, since the game doesn't actually allow to do anything but kill everyone. That, and the Hinterlands won't be a fifth of the story.
> 
> July 19 - Fixed some things on the Redcliffe situation, after [this great find](http://carabas.tumblr.com/post/147607708877/for-anyone-else-trying-to-cobble-together-their) by carabas.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some fixes to the Redcliffe situation in Chapter 6 under the last horizontal line, after [this great find](http://carabas.tumblr.com/post/147607708877/for-anyone-else-trying-to-cobble-together-their) by carabas.

_10 Kingsway, 9:41_

Ray woke up in the dead of night, maybe because he’d had enough sleep as it was in the last week, or maybe because the temperature in the cabin had fallen to abysmal lows once the fire had gone out. His dreams were still a confusing amalgam, with little he was able to focus on. Usually the reflection of his own thoughts and memories would be the most overwhelming part of a dream, but now they were either buried underneath everything else, or the spirits just weren’t interested. Maybe he wasn’t interesting enough, he thought with irritation. It was the mark that attracted them, after all.

He opened the window to try to get an idea about what time it was, but the clouds had gotten thicker since the evening, obscuring the stars and even most of the moons’ light. The snow covering the village was a jarring mix of orange from fires and the green from the Breach. A soldier was standing a few paces away from the cabin, and turned around when Ray cleared his throat.

“Your worship!” The soldier half-bowed and half-saluted. He looked a fair bit unnerved, which might have been the scenery’s fault. Ray decided that going on his first night-time stroll in the snow wouldn’t be the most merciful of ideas, if the soldier’s duty were to follow him for protection.

“Good… morning,” he really wasn’t used to speaking with guards who weren’t templars. “Do you know how long until dawn?”

“Just about two hours or so, your Worship.” Josephine had called him that once the previous day, and it seemed to have stuck with the soldiers at least. “Do you want me to wake up a servant to make breakfast?”

“No, that is fine, um,” he made out to close the wooden shutter. “Thank you.”

“Your worship!” The solder saluted again before Ray found himself in the near darkness of the cabin.

He lit a fire in the fireplace and threw a glance at Baron Plucky. The raven was asleep, head slumped. He’d go to the chantry crypt to look for a mouse later, if there were any to be found. Or check around that prison he had been in, if he could figure out where the entrance was. After some doodling, sitting close to the fire, he closed his book and went to the writing desk. As Josephine had promised, a stack of papers, ink and two quills were neatly placed in a corner. Leliana had requested that he wrote what he remembered of the talks at the Conclave and now seemed as good of a time as any to get this over with. She wouldn’t like what she would read, talks hadn’t even budged from the principle of things to a practical solution. Not that any of the principles had been close to being accepted.

He pulled the chair and, without thinking, drew out a wisp. Baron Plucky shuffled in his cage, looked around, then spread his wings back, as if yawning and stretching. Ray wondered for a moment whether he should let the bird do his ‘getting used’ thing, then decided against cutting into the napping time of one so grumpy. He took the thick bedspread, folded it in four, and covered the front of the cage. No outraged squawks followed, so it was probably fine, and he got started on writing.

* * *

The bathhouse had been as nicely empty and disgustingly cold as it had been the day before, and there were more than a few rats in the crypt, which sprawled a few blocked off corridors. It looked more like a storage basement, if indeed things were being stored behind the doors. Hopefully not the sleeping chambers of sisters and brothers, the rank air would really put one’s devotion to the test.

Climbing up and opening the squeaky door to the chantry hall, he startled Josephine, who nearly dropped the jug she was carrying when she spotted the dead rat floating a few inches before him. Still, she managed to stay collected enough to invite him to share the coffee she had brewed - after he had brought breakfast to the fortunate Baron Plucky. The chantry was otherwise nearly empty, and he greeted the one sister refilling oil into the lamps, after having swung the rat to the side to avoid another potential accident.

The Baron himself didn’t show any sign of gratitude, pecked at the rat once, then dragged it further into the cage and mostly turned his back to Ray before diving in. Ray had no idea how much of a rat a raven needed for breakfast, or who was supposed to clean up whatever ended up remaining of it. He could do enough entropy for something small and dead, and Baron Plucky certainly seemed to have enough will to escape any effects of the spell, but he didn’t really want to risk that now. After observing a few flocks of fur fly to the side, he decided that witnessing a messy breakfast might kill all appetite for his own, and headed out and back to the chantry.

Josephine had already gotten started on writing, a cup of coffee at her side, the jug sitting next to a small sugar bowl and some milk on the desk he had used the day before. He hadn’t had coffee in a long time. It had been quite common at breakfast back home, and he would get some sent to the Circle every once in a while, but he hadn’t been home or received any presents with the turmoil in the last year. He poured himself a cup with just some milk.

“I hope trade roads are restored soon, this might be the only sugar left in Haven.” Josephine put down the quill and took a sip of her coffee. “That, and the stationary with proper Inquisition heraldry that we ordered is probably still sitting in Val Royeaux.” She looked through the paper in front of her, then placed in on top of a pile of sheets already covered in her neat handwriting.

“Who are all these letters addressed to?” 

“Noble houses, major and minor, across Thedas. We need to gain their allegiance and support for the Inquisition, in both reputation and resources.” 

Josephine seemed to think that the Inquisition would go on even after the Breach was sealed, though in what capacity exactly wasn’t quite so clear. He supposed his own role would be over with once the rifts were gone as well.

“May I read them?” She looked at him in surprise and he shrugged. “Might be useful knowledge, in case we ever get to do something like that in Ostwick.”

“You did negotiate with the teyrn,” she pointed out.

“The teyrn negotiated with us. It is his right, not just because it turned out that the castle actually belonged to him, and not to the Chantry. We are stuck being apostates.” Negotiations with the teyrn had been difficult. There was no other law on mages but the Chantry law, and they knew that even with everything they had to offer, if the Chantry ever took a firm stance on the happenings, the teyrn would accept it. Even King Alistair declaring non-Circle mages subjects under him had done little to stop the Chantry from trying to make them Circle mages, and that with the size of Ferelden and a healthy amount of benevolence towards mages from the general populace.

Ray copied a few expressions from the letters. Josephine really knew how to put a firm request into a lot of polite and flattering words. His parents had sent him a crate of books on etiquette and politics after he had passed his Harrowing and gotten his own room, and he had actually read them, but not revisited often enough in retrospect.

He ended up adorning the letters with the Inquisition symbol in red ink, in lieu of missing stationary. He hadn’t paid much attention to what the symbol truly meant, and Josephine’s tale about the Visus constellation and about Seekers and templars splitting the image between themselves didn’t make him like it any more.

“Heraldry is a passion of mine. ‘Modest in temper, bold in deed.’” She smiled and quoted the Trevelyan motto. Well, as a mage he had certainly been taught plenty of the former, and none of the latter.

A servant brought in light breakfast and the two talked some more before they went back to writing and drawing, with a wisp for lighting and a fire glyph on the wall to combat the cold that had infiltrated the whole building during the night. The comfortable silence was broken only when Cassandra came in to announce that they were heading out soon.

* * *

“I’m not really the best person to talk to. Doesn’t the Chantry have people for this?”

It came out harsher than he had meant for it to be, but Leliana calling him the Maker’s prophet had really hit his limits. Being called a lord he could deal with just fine. He’d had enough dismissal at First Day gatherings for it to feel nice being referred to as such by someone other than servants. Herald, Worship, prophet of the Maker… this bag of titles was actually getting too heavy. He was Andrastian in name only, and from what he had seen of the mages who actually believed, they weren’t better off with their self-flagellation.

Leliana laughed. “So I should let a priest comfort me? No, this is my burden. I regret that I even let you see me like this.”

At least the Divine appeared to have been a friend rather than just some Chantry ruler who pulled strings from the dark and wouldn’t actually talk to people. She had obviously been more than just Justinia to Leliana, but it felt like she had been Justinia first.

Leliana gave him something like half a falconry glove to fasten around his forearm, a whistle on a band, some papers and colored pieces of fabric for coded messages, and finally a cheerful ‘good luck’ with Baron Plucky. He still took the cage out of the cabin rather than letting the bird loose inside, and then used magic from few steps back to nudge the twig that held the cage’s door. The Baron took his time getting out, then flew to a nearby snowdrift and started flopping and fluttering around in it.

“He likes to play in the snow,” Ray heard Leliana’s voice from behind him, and just like that the Baron flew inches away from his face and perched on the spymaster’s shoulder, snuggling into the shawl at her neck. She raised a hand to pet him and smirked. “I recommend you don’t attempt petting him yet. Give him a year or seven.”

* * *

When they came back from successfully closing the four known rifts and dealing with whatever demons the soldiers had missed, a few mages had ventured into the encampment. The villagers didn’t seem to mind, sometimes even chatting them up. They were unarmed, of course, and for all but two, who were still wearing robes, Ray wouldn’t have known they were mages had they not said so themselves. Eight of them had settled in some furnished chambers on the way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, more than an hour’s walk from Haven. Apparently there were tunnels all over the place, including underneath the very village, most of them long looted and abandoned. The mages had come to formally join the Inquisition and confided, in a pleased voice, that no templars were being sent along to oversee them. Whether that was because templars were in short supply, or because the mages had fought alongside against the demons, was unclear. They had an early dinner together in Ray’s cabin, and even though the gathering had started off somewhat subdued, everybody eventually lightened up. At least the main problem shifted from an uncertain future to there not being a single book worth the time in Haven. One of them went to fetch Minaeve to join them, but she preferred to stay at the chantry.

At first he had been suitably impressed with her. A mage, an apprentice no less, taking care of the Tranquil and being so comfortable around them, was not something one often witnessed. It took the kind of courage and kindness most mages, including Ray himself, didn’t possess. It wasn’t so much about how mages saw the Tranquil, as it was about rather not having to see them at all. He had gotten used to some of the Tranquil in Ostwick, but getting used to them just meant noticing them less. That was with him not ever having been particularly worried about such fate befalling him. It had been more than a decade since he had last received threats of the kind, few of them believable, and even then it hadn’t taken long before the First Enchanter had assured him she would never sign that permission.

That mages on the run had abandoned most of the Tranquil was hardly a surprise. For one, if things anywhere had been similar to Ostwick, it had been three years of carefully watching that no Tranquil ever overheard anything the templars weren’t meant to hear. That the Tranquil had accepted the new authority once it was there, had been as much a relief as it had been a warning. They had answered pretty much anything the mages had asked, so anything confidential had to be kept from them same as before, in case they switched sides again. Menial tasks or no menial tasks, few were happy about them being around. Judging by how those of the Tranquil who left, ended up returning, it wasn’t just mages who didn’t like the presence. Nobody had suggested throwing them out because, at the end of the day, most mages ultimately pinned their feelings about the Tranquil as pity. They had once been mages. Perhaps they could be mages again, if knowledge about the cure hadn’t disappeared together with those who had died.

He couldn’t really fault Minaeve for wanting safety rather than rebellion either, after being left behind all by herself with the Tranquil, but the strange dichotomy of desperately wanting the templars back after having watched them mistreat Tranquil for a decade made his head spin. The fondness with which she spoke of the Tranquil also sounded rather macabre in light of the admission that her own magic was just strong enough to be trouble to others. Ray didn’t know what her old Circle had been like, but at Ostwick chances were she would have been offered Tranquility instead of the Harrowing.

He had quickly learned his lesson and made peace with letting people decide for themselves. Only after he’d been made enchanter had he also noticed that more capable apprentices often shunned people like Minaeve, not last because it was easier to never care about someone rather than wake up one day and see them a Tranquil. It had been pure relief to let go of tutoring apprentices once he was senior enchanter.

* * *

Ray met Master Harritt to pick up some clothes, none of them tight shirts. The man had fled Redcliffe half a year earlier, when it had been offered to the rebel mages, and couldn’t say much about what it had been like since. There hadn’t been tales of mayhem and destruction, and once the gates had been closed, there hadn’t been any news of it. Still, that was half a year of what appeared to be a few hundred mages sharing a village with regular people, and that was without precedent, as far as Ray knew.

On his way to the Chantry he overheard Leliana sending for the death of a scout that had betrayed them. Varric ran his own spy network, apparently, and things like not getting attached to people made him concede Leliana’s superiority as spymaster. Ray found that a bit disconcerting, but mostly because, as it turned out, Leliana’s duties had been pretty much the same under the Divine as they were now under the Inquisition. He knew there were constant power plays between nobles and the Chantry even in Ostwick, but mostly the line seemed to get drawn at blackmail back home.

A noble had turned up at the Haven chantry, to claim ownership of the village no less, and it seemed to Ray dealing with him made Josephine’s day. It probably was a welcome diversion from writing all those letters. She had already filled all the sheets he had prepared, so he did some more, and even wrote some of the letters under her dictation, when she needed to rest her hand from all the writing. He could only do those that were to be written in the Trade tongue, which pretty much meant letters to Ferelden and the Free Marches. He could read some Tevene, and had a decent chance at making sense of written Orlesian, but that was only from reading books written in them. Actually speaking in either was beyond him. The Circle rarely got mages from outside of the Marches, so he couldn’t compete with Josephine, who had traveled through most of Thedas and spoken with nobles from all over the place. She was, however, amused that he could write in different hands, and had fun requesting styles that would match some noble’s fancy. 

“This one was the First Enchanter’s,” he said, handing her the latest of the finished letters. “Her fingers had grown too stiff to handle a quill in the last few years. The rest are really just from books I copied.”

“Weren’t the Circle’s books ever printed?”

“Not as far as I know. They weren’t needed in such high numbers, even the ones for apprentices. Then there are the ones that wouldn’t have been allowed to leave the rooms they were being stored in.” It had been the Tranquil who usually made copies, but he’d volunteer for the text or drawings of some of the more restricted books and scrolls.

“The atmosphere in Haven can’t be what you are used to.” Josephine sighed. “I hope staying busy takes your mind from the surroundings, as it does for me.” It did take his mind from a great deal more than that, so it wasn’t all bad. “Could you do the next one in that heavy and bold design? Lord Kildarn has a taste for the imposing at all times of day.”

They ended up going for a walk once neither could write or draw any longer, and the chantry had grown deserted. Walks had been one of the best things to come out of the independence, at least those that weren’t back and forth a corridor. Ray still had a penchant for walking along the battlements, which had been off limits with the templars around.

He had summoned a small flame, just enough to dispell the green shades on the snow around them.

“Are you sure it is alright for your ring to stay behind? I understand it is an important symbol for mages?”

Ray shrugged. He would have melted or sold his Harrowing ring, if it wasn’t simply silver with the barest trace of lyrium. “It is a symbol of a practice I am not fond of. Keeping a wisp glued to it is about the only thing it’s good for. Once we dropped some thirty of them, with wisps, in the lake near the castle, at night. I am sure the fish didn’t appreciate it, but it was great for a swim.” He looked with some dismay at the frozen river. “No swimming here.”

Josephine laughed. “No, I wouldn’t imagine so. Do you get much snow in Ostwick at all?”

“Ferelden’s mountains stop most of the cold from the south, but the coast does get frosty during nights in winter. There is even some snow around First Day. We are on the northern slope of the Vimmarks though, snow was rare.”

Josephine missed Antiva more than he missed Ostwick - not just the weather, but its vivacity, festivals and colors. Haven especially had a severe lack of the last one. Ray couldn’t help but wonder what tales Leliana had tempted her with into not only throwing her lot with the Inquisition, but also being so confident about its growth. Moreover, she was the heir to her family’s vineyards and trading. He didn’t think his mother would let his elder sister run off to join heretical organizations, leaving family obligations behind.

They headed back when Josephine reminded him that he was leaving for the Hinterlands early in the morning, and that he should rest.

* * *

_11 Kingsway, 9:41_

He stood frozen outside the open gate of Haven. Cassandra and Solas were already on their horses, and Varric appeared, humming and in a good mood, a few seconds later. The dwarf was apparently agile enough to mount his steed without a problem, even with the stirrups much higher than normal. Ray swallowed and tried to calm his nerves. He’d had his pony as a child, and even after that he’d been on horseback - although it had always been a for a slow walk around the estate. He should have expected that they wouldn’t settle for a cart’s speed.

“Get on with it!” Cassandra was getting impatient. He mounted carefully and they were off. Nobody tried to gallop, which was just as well, because he’d never been on a galloping horse. The way from Haven was a constant downward slope, and an even trot intersperced with walking seemed good enough for everyone, including the horses. Ray had been fine for an hour or so, until he grew tired and couldn’t make up for lack of practice with concentration. After that he felt that he was too stiff and forceful on the horse, but seemed to revert back to it minutes after correcting himself. The result was him aching everywhere. When they stopped for a rest after hitting even ground, he was lightheaded, the world was still shaking before his eyes, and his stomach was telling him that the right decision would have been to forgo breakfast.

“You are holding your knees too far ahead and squeezing with your thighs too much,” Cassandra helpfully provided him with some horseback riding advice a few hours too late. “And try not to bounce, it can unnerve the horse. And your innards.” He gave her a dirty look that was meant as something like ‘not much equestrian training at the Circle’, and maybe she understood it, because she sighed and turned to Varric instead.

“Have you heard from any of your Kirkwall associates, Varric?”

“I tend to refer to my ‘associates’ as friends. Maybe you’re not familiar with the concept.” Cassandra sighed again and Ray held back a laugh. The dwarf was pretty good at annoying her, all the while deflecting without actually getting into arguments.

“This is serious, Varric. Leliana received reports of templars leaving Kirkwall,” Cassandra paused. “And of red lyrium at the Gallows. Other than Meredith, I mean.”

Varric shook his head wearily. “Finding more of it really punches a hole in my ‘red lyrium at the temple was a coincidence’ theory. I had received news of demand for lyrium bribes falling. Didn’t expect the red stuff. Maybe the rest of the Free Marches will at least stop trying to invade us now.”

Indeed, with everything Kirkwall had been through the ages, the recent years, and the way the months to come were shaping to be, it sounded more like a plague than a boon.

“Your viscount seems pretty confident you’ll manage to hold off any army,” Ray chimed in.

“Oh come on, so your teyrn got one of those letters as well? Rumor is Bran has dozens of copies with an empty space for the name of the latest benefactor. On the scale of ‘helping’ to ‘invading’, where the two are almost the same for Kirkwall, what does Ostwick want?” Varric’s expression wasn’t as jocular as his words.

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” Ray raised his hands. “For what it’s worth the mages have no interest in Ostwick going expansionist. We don’t want an Exalted March, and I’m pretty sure nobody yearns to be stationed at the Gallows… even less so now, I suppose. Ostwick just doesn’t want anyone else invading you. We don’t need another Nevarra,” he grinned at Cassandra.

“Your teyrn might say that now,” Varric scoffed. “But he seems to be the only one around with an army of mages. Though he doesn’t have Aveline.”

“Gentlemen,” Cassandra cut in. “If you are quite done with Marcher rivalry, we have to get going.”

Ray was actually irritated at feeling any sort of Marcher rivalry. He had been to Ostwick, the city proper, once in the last twenty years.

* * *

He had expected the ride on the even Imperial Highway to feel better, but the exact opposite turned out to be the case. The noise of horseshoes hitting the hard pavement was a lot more audible from outside of a carriage, and the sharp monotonous clang from his own horse’s reverberated through his body. Even the magnificent view of Lake Calenhad and the realization that there was greenery in this land couldn’t distract him enough. Cassandra’s advice might have been helpful if he could have made himself follow it, but they were riding faster now, and that made him instinctively try to control the horse even more. He was too aching and tired to fight against instincts, and when the steed suddenly veered to the side, making him slide on the saddle slightly, he cast a barrier. Whatever it was that the horse perceived, it wasn’t taken well, and the animal reared. Ray held on to the saddle and the reins with as much strength as he could muster, while doing the only thing he knew that could get him out of this, and casting again. Hooves dropped to the ground and the horse froze still. The three others had stopped and Cassandra was already jumping down from the saddle and running to him. Solas laughed softly and Varric was just staring.

“What did you do?” Cassandra stopped before the motionless horse and looked at the Ray with something between anger and horror. “His eyes are getting more bloodshot by the second!”

Ray let the reins drop from his hands, dismounted carefully, and took a few steps back, leaving the Seeker between himself and the horse.

“All I did to start with was cast a barrier, and it was going to throw me! I paralyzed it.” Cassandra was glaring daggers. “I got scared! Happy now?”

“Hold the spell,” was all she said before running back to her horse to get a flask of something. When she soaked a rag in it, the smell of vinegar hit his nose. She started rubbing the rag around the horse’s nostrils and mouth. “Can you release the spell gradually?” Ray nodded and did what he could. It wasn’t really what he was best at and he could feel Solas helpfully casting from his side, so he smiled at him gratefully. Finally the spell was gone and the horse looked calmer, if exhausted. Ray was feeling pretty exhausted himself, and he didn’t fancy getting back on that horse ever again.

“I didn’t take this into account, and we are so short on horses.” Cassandra finally conceded. “You will ride my horse, she won’t have such a reaction to spells. After you talk to Mother Giselle, I’d like us to look for one Dennet, a horse-master. We need to get more proper riding horses.”

They sat down again for an unplanned break. 

“It wasn’t you who hexed that book, was it?” Solas mildly inquired.

“It doesn’t take long for my lack of aptitude for hexes to shine,” Ray laughed. “Charles did this one, he’d always had a knack for them and liked building them up. I take it you were the one to dispell it? That is quite impressive.”

“It was an impressive system of spells. I am not one for enslaving spirits, but to have a wisp fuel a terror hex and a force spell, while simultaneously reinforcing a confusion hex as its own prison, is good protection against snooping. Not against destroying the book outright, of course.”

Ray had to admit that if one got to learn about things like that from spirits in the Fade, it wasn’t a bad place to learn. He hadn’t expected for the whole thing to be deciphered, just chipped away at until the wisp got out.

“It was just a game… from the Circle. The templars weren’t usually allowed to simply destroy books. They would try to purge the spells, and fail because of the wisp, then we would be obligated to do it for them. It wasn’t _technically_ allowed, but we would tell them it was meant for the apprentices to stay away. It was, too, at times, but mostly they stopped asking us to do it after a while because it was too humiliating. Useful for communication.”

“This ‘game’ of yours nearly got you killed!” Cassandra huffed. “Some of the sisters are still scared to go near you.”

“Well, Chantry sisters fondling my grimoire wasn’t something I had planned for.” He felt a bit sorry for them, the clerics around Haven seemed mostly nice and sympathetic… aside from Chancellor Roderick, that is. He’d thought it was the awe keeping them at a respectable distance.

“Be glad the Seeker didn’t stick her knife through your book, it’s been known to happen,” Varric chuckled.

“One generally gets used to their own hexes, but weren’t you uncomfortably susceptible to your friend’s?” Ray wondered what life as a lone apostate had been like for Solas. Even with spirits as friends he couldn’t imagine spending maybe thirty years without a living person to confide in.

“He’d been practicing his hexes on me for years, I’m more used to his than to my own.” He smiled at the memory. “If he were here now, he would be taking notes on exactly how I felt on that horse, and trying to replicate it.”

“Please do _not_ try to replicate it while you’re riding my horse.” Cassandra said. “She won’t flinch at spells being cast, but she is a warhorse, not one used to people panicking and flailing on her back.”

* * *

The rest of the journey went more smoothly, with him concentrating on keeping the barrier up rather than on worrying about the horse. He still hurt all over when they finally made it to the Inquisition camp. One scout Harding was in charge there, and she didn’t look like a lyrium smuggler either. ‘Down to earth’, he thought, although that was better off remaining unvoiced. He wondered if there was a book about what not to say to a surfacer dwarf.

With the Conclave explosion a week past, most of the fighting seemed to be over. There was a templar camp somewhere, and some cultist mages elsewhere, as well as some harmless but crazier cultists elsewhere entirely. The people at the Crossroads had actually started getting organized, but lacked too many necessities, as well as any confidence against potential attacks not just by templars or mages, but also demons, bandits and possibly possessed wild animals. And apparently he himself was the last great hope for Thedas.

The refugees were different from those in Haven, however. Maybe it was because he had been asleep while Haven had been taking care of its problems, but there were few praises to the Maker when people at the Crossroads spoke to him. They were worried for their safety first, not so much about the Breach. It felt strange that a glowing hand and a few Inquisition scouts and soldiers killing any attackers without asking questions could offer such assurance, but they stuck a banner reading ‘Under Protection of the Inquisition’, and it worked, somehow. Baron Plucky dramatically landed near the flag, and Ray was glad he wasn’t looking for corpses instead.

Mother Giselle was nothing like the humble clerics in Haven either. The way she talked rather reminded Ray of his mother, if she’d had a heavy Orlesian accent and vague motivations. After the preamble she went straight into how to sow dissent in the Chantry, and pointed out the power he now held and what he could do with it. He had read Leliana’s notes, but that wasn’t quite what he had pictured a disobedient cleric like. Helping the poor was quite far from pitching in with an Inquisition that could, in her words, ‘deliver us or destroy us’. He wasn’t even sure who exactly ‘us’ was supposed to be.

“If I thought you were incapable, I wouldn’t suggest it.” Oh, she definitely reminded him of his mother. And she was right that this would buy them time, although once again he wasn’t sure why a cleric took such interest in having the Chantry stand divided for even longer than they were setting themselves up for. He wasn’t particularly eager to go to Val Royeaux and say hello, especially not when the remaining templars were rumored to have been called back there.

In the end, Mother Giselle promised to go to Haven and give Leliana the names of clerics that could be swayed, while he stayed to play deliverance for the Hinterlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is are a few contradictions in lore about what language the countries around Thedas speak, but I prefer to leave Tevene and Orlesian as main languages in the respective empires. I headcanon the city-states in the Free Marches to have their own language, but with significant variations and influences depending on their history and geographical position, hence the Common/Trade tongue being used in writing for anything beyond local correspondence.


	8. Chapter 8

_14 Kingsway, 9:41_

“ _a mount of noble spirit, fallen in battle against rage, returned to life by the boundless urge to run and serve a worthy cause and noble master. Prove what your followers already believe, that your reach is beyond this realm. That death is no barrier to victory. –The Collective_ ”

Josephine looked at Leliana dumbfounded.

“Just _what_ are they sending?”

The Mages’ Collective was presumably still investigating the rifts, and she didn’t doubt one or two of them had been at the site of the Breach as well, but now they were sending gifts. Going by the description, very unsettling gifts.

“A possessed dead horse, by the sound of it,” Leliana smirked. “Wouldn’t be the first strange thing we’ve seen, and likely won’t be the last. I’ll make sure it arrives safely.”

Josephine couldn’t start to imagine what the creature would look like. If it glowed… she threw a glance at the wisp summoned by one of the mages, then even a caparison wouldn’t hide it. She tried to recall what she knew of the corpses the Mortalitasi raised, which wasn’t much.

“Maybe he won’t like it,” she said hopefully. “Cassandra writes that riding has been difficult for him. I will arrange for a ship to Val Royeaux. With the Breach calmed, maybe we can spare the time for a carriage to Jader.”

“You can’t be serious, Josie! What will sending him on that errand bring other than expose him to danger?” Leliana folded her arms and frowned. “He doesn’t care for the Chantry anyway. He doesn’t even care for the Maker. Lucky. The Maker demands a lot.”

“Surely we need not proclaim that to the world? Lord Trevelyan has been accommodating enough. We told him the people needed a miracle, and he hasn’t refuted it in public, uncomfortable as he might feel about it. And it works. Haven was only the beginning. The Hinterlands are following suit, the refugees believe in him, Master Dennet has promised not only horses, but weapons as well, as soon as the roads and his farms have been secured. The Chantry is the main obstacle in our way. Having the Herald address the clerics is not a terrible idea.”

Josephine had little hope for the Chantry accepting Trevelyan, but if Mother Giselle was right, then the clerics would splinter further. At the moment their condemnation for the Inquisition and its Herald was the only thing holding them together, while discord and plots were already brewing underneath. Factions of all sizes were scrambling to fill the vacuum left by the deaths of the Divine, the Grand Clerics, and many of the most influential Revered Mothers. If even a fraction of the clerics’ support could be obtained, at least the nobles would have doubts which way to look. Things just weren’t going to move along otherwise.

“He’ll listen to you,” Leliana’s head snapped up. “He called you Josephine the other day and he talks to you as much as he talks to Solas. Maybe more, since you are asleep less often.”

Josephine shook her head. “Maker knows these have been the most precarious conversations I have been through. The insensitive gaffes I have made would have had me killed in the Game, and I am sure I didn’t even notice all of them!”

She had been grateful for the hours they had spent simply working on writing letters. Their worlds were so far apart, and she knew very little of Trevelyan’s. The shared nobility was a trap she found herself falling into over and over again, forgetting that this was the world he had lost, only to be reminded of it yearly. They would talk of their four siblings each, until she’d remember that he had only had short glimpses into their lives. Or the seaside and the ships he loved just like she did, only that was also something he had been denied. He had asked about her hometown and Josephine had described the beauty of Antiva City, and how sad she had been to leave it for Val Royeaux to continue her education at fifteen. Ray had teased, tone light, a smile on his face. They had been well into talking about the subjects of finishing school when it dawned on her that they might have needed to pry _his_ fingers off a door frame when they had taken him to the Circle. Each time the conversation had faltered like it had never happened to her before. She had talked to a few court mages over the years, polite and impersonal conversations, and this was nothing like it. She threw a despondent look at Leliana, wondering just how she had dealt with that.

“Don’t fret about it too much, Josie.” Leliana shrugged. “He appears to be perfectly capable of expressing dissatisfaction, and I am sure whatever you said to him, he has heard far worse.”

“Which is why I asked him to call me by my name. The social gatherings he has attended, he has been a visitor in his own home. He shouldn’t be made to feel an outcast here.”

Leliana hummed and took a sip of her coffee. “Has he told you anything of his life in the Circle?”

“Only a few quaint stories. Pranks, unusual ways to use magic. Nothing… disturbing, not that I would press.”

“Then maybe he doesn’t want pity.” Leliana curled her hands around the wisp on the desk, expression sad and longing. “Don’t look for the brokenness, Josie. We all have scars.”

It wasn’t as if Josephine could offer any comfort to a lone mage, seeing as she couldn’t even do anything for an old friend. Leliana had closed off to a degree where Josephine barely recognized her anymore. Justinia’s death had been just the latest and most decisive hit, and now the very foundations were cracked and shaken. She wished they had the money and people to send an army through war-torn Orlais and through the desert, over the mountains in search for Amell. But she didn’t even dare mention her name, unwilling to invoke Leliana’s worst fears.

“My agent sent note of boarding ship to Amaranthine last night. Our timing was opportune, he writes there are few things to worry about. Two stayed with the family as servants to watch over them. We should have the full story in two days.” Leliana stood up. “It is really late, Josie, you should rest.”

“Was drinking my coffee an elaborate ploy to send me to bed?” Josephine closed the large register she had been writing in. She could only spare an hour or two on managing the Montilyet estate before going to bed.

“Well, it seems I have to get started on going through a list of clerics. Also, Tevinters have been sighted in the Hinterlands close to West Hills. Mages and their servants. It’s going to be a long night.” Leliana picked up the jug with what coffee was left in it, then Trevelyan’s ring with the wisp, and made for the door. “Goodnight, Josie.”

* * *

_16 Kingsway, 9:41_

Josephine put down Bann Trevelyan’s letter to the Inquisition.

“She seems to care for him a great deal.” The letter was almost too heartfelt.

“Like I said, we made a timely entrance. My agents handed in the Herald’s note and were immediately admitted into the estate.” Leliana put a few sheets of paper on the nearby desk, revealing a square, richly decorated box underneath. “The bann had believed him dead. Owing to her state of affect, I believe we got a more sincere story than we normally would have.”

She handed her the box and took a seat. Unlike Ray’s book, which had just the ornamental horse emerging from the sea, the full Trevelyan coat of arms adorned the box. Inside, it was split into two compartments, a scroll to the left and a single piece of parchment to the right, cushioned on a bed of silk. The document, dated back a year and a half ago, bore the Teyrn of Ostwick’s seal and restored the full birthright of Ray Maxwell Trevelyan. Josephine scanned the text quickly.

“It doesn’t even have a disinheritance clause,” she took out the scroll and went through the pages. “Who needs a 1200 years deep family tree?”

“Tevinter, apparently.” Shock must have shown on her face, for Leliana waved a hand dismissively. With all the unclear Tevinter involvement… “No, nothing like that. This is, in the bann’s own words, her admitting defeat. We were right to suspect that she had plans for her son. Rich nobles, outside of Orlais anyway, sometimes will send a mage child to Tevinter. The very heir to Redcliffe was shipped there, in fact, before the Chantry could intervene. Bann Trevelyan considered the option, however she chose to hand the child over to the Ostwick Circle, as an apprentice to the First Enchanter no less. Now, this is something that isn’t often done.”

“Amell was the First Enchanter’s apprentice, wasn’t she?”

Leliana scoffed and gave her a somewhat unhappy look, as if admonishing her for mentioning Amell now.

“Aileas was brilliant on her own, she wasn’t handed to Irving. Anyway, the official reasoning was that he was especially gifted, since he had managed to get his magic under control and hide it for more than half a year, and he wasn’t a weak mage. The real reason is that they wanted him in a leading role in the Circle one day.”

Then Josephine’s first inkling had been correct. Bann Trevelyan had wanted the mages in addition to her influence in the Chantry. The rebellion wasn’t necessary detrimental to her plans. Two independent forces as allies could be better than mages under the Chantry.

“Unfortunately for his mother, he wouldn’t play along. He wanted to do his magic and showed no interest in an administrative role down the road. Worse, he wanted out,” Leliana’s smile was nostalgic. “He was the last in his group of friends - the ones who were accompanying him to the Conclave, to pass his Harrowing, and once none of them were apprentices any longer, he put all effort into imploring his mother, for two years, to get them to Tevinter.”

There was a saying that humans were lucky to be born, and mages lucky to be born in Tevinter. It wasn’t an unusual sentiment for one to want to be there, especially free of indenture, assuming the bann would have arranged or paid for it. Still, he ought to have known that he was asking for the impossible. Giving a mage child to relatives in the Imperium was one thing. It might have ruffled feathers with connections in the Chantry, but likely not for too long. Sending four harrowed mages there, especially ones who might refuse to return, might have resulted in political suicide.

“She refused, maintaining that being at the top of a southern Circle was better than a mediocre position in Tevinter.”

“What about his friends?” Josephine asked. “His lineage might have worked out for him, but wasn’t one of them an elf?”

“Tevinter is as much demonized as it is romanticized, more the latter by mages. He was used to extending to his friends the substantial privileges he had in the Circle, likely he didn’t think that would need to change. Ostensibly the attempts at negotiation ended when he was made enchanter. It probably matched his views anyway, or it might have been out of spite at first, but he joined the libertarians.”

Josephine shook her head. She tried to imagine what a similar push for ambition from her mother would do to her siblings, and she liked Bann Trevelyan less now than she had after reading her letter. 

“And now comes the twist,” Leliana gave a gleeful chuckle. “The Circle was eight parts aequitarian, his voice would have ended up reaffirming or drowned with them. The libertarians gave him a lot more prominence. Ironic, really. For half a decade the fraternity was surprisingly successful in loosening some restrictions for the mages. But then Kirkwall came, and while he was made senior enchanter, and things between him and his mother were doing better, all the gains from the previous years were undone within months and things only got worse after that. A few months before the rebellion Bann Trevelyan started to fear that his name alone wouldn’t be enough to keep him safe.”

Josephine nodded at the box. “Hence this?”

“Yes, she offered to send him to Tevinter - but only him. He refused. She tried again a few months later, this time suggesting that he marry Nicole Cardowan, herself the firstborn of a minor noble, and the two could go. He didn’t even reply to that letter. Then, after the Circles had fallen and the Ostwick mages were isolated, she visited, and offered him what he had asked for nearly ten years earlier. Obviously, he refused again, and they had a huge argument in the courtyard. She has since been supporting the mages in their negotiations with the teyrn, both directly and by getting other houses behind her.”

Josephine stared at the documents with irritation. “Why send this to him now? Is she telling him she will send him to Tevinter after the Breach is closed, or does she simply want the Herald of Andraste a bona fide Trevelyan?”

“You are the expert on nobles, Josie.” Leliana stood up and placed a sealed letter next to the box. “Her letter to him is more pragmatic. She will get him the Tevinter citizenship if that is what he wants, but I think she knows that he won’t take it.”

“Maker, Leliana, you didn’t have to read his letters!” Josephine slumped back in her chair. “What do we tell him now? He is alone, and everybody, including us, is scrambling to use him.”

“Do we have a choice? He is the only one who can close the Breach, and he is the one people rally behind. Support for the Inquisition will plummet without him.” She stretched her hand. “Let’s go for a walk, Josie. And find the Commander.”

“Why him?” She sighed, closed the box, and placed it on a shelf, together with the letter to Trevelyan.

“From the mages.” Leliana handed her another letter to place next to the first, and smiled. “Because I want to see him squirm.”

* * *

“If there is nothing worrying about your reports on the Herald, I really should get back to the trainees,” Cullen spoke. “We are getting a lot of new recruits.”

That was pretty much everything Leliana had shared with him thus far, ‘nothing worrying’. They had walked to the pier over the frozen river, the clattering of swords somewhat subdued here. Josephine was wondering just what Leliana was planning to talk about, and prayed it wouldn’t be driving too much of a wedge between them, or between Cullen and Trevelyan. They really could do without any more of that.

“I figured out something, Commander.” Leliana finally got started with a wry smile. “Why Ostwick kept its distance from Kirkwall during all those years.”

“I had forgotten about that, why is it so important? Varric mentioned they didn’t like the Orlesian influence.”

“I didn’t think it was that important,” she shrugged. “It came up during my agent’s visit to the Ostwick mages. I was curious about the circumstances around their taking over the castle.”

Cullen sighed and drove a hand through his hair. “Cassandra told me how that ended. It’s still hard to imagine how they did it.”

“Until the mages had gotten hold of their staves and driven the battle into the courtyard, mostly with alchemy. Smoke and acid, was what one of the senior enchanters in charge of the alchemical supplies told my agent.”

Josephine had turned into a mute spectator, throwing worrying glances at Leliana and wondering just how much what she had to say would upset Cullen.

“Maker… it must have been dreadful… though preferable to blood magic. For what it’s worth, our templars never went to attack that castle. We were all trying to restore normality in Kirkwall. I should have stayed. Do you have any further news about the red lyrium or where the templars left for?”

“None, unfortunately.” The slyness was gone from Leliana’s eyes, replaced with concern. “We know that they haven’t gone to Ostwick, the templars there are, same as before, concentrated in the city. They aren’t so many nowadays, however, mostly from Ostwick themselves.”

The conversation, veered from its original direction, hung in the air.

“Do you know about Ostwick city’s double walls, Commander?” Cullen’s brows furrowed and he shook his head, while Josephine finally made the connection.

“I can’t believe I missed that,” she murmured. Leliana was giving her an inviting look, so she spoke to Cullen. “When the Qunari ships were finally driven away from the Amaranthine Ocean during the Exalted March in the Storm Age, what remained of them went into the Waking Sea. Ostwick was taking part in the naval battles, their fleet managed to drive them away from the city. The Qunari left Ostwick alone after a few battles and went on to conquer Kirkwall. Ostwick not only restored the city walls, they put a second row around the first one as well, so unnerved by the Qunari were they even in their victory.”

“And not just that,” Leliana interjected. “Mages were instrumental in destroying the Qunari dreadnoughts and in defending against the Saarebas - the Qunari’s own mages. Ostwick didn’t have its own Circle of Magi at the time, the mages were drafted from other places. After that they established the Circle in 7:61, with plenty of funding due to the recent scare. There is apparently a whole hall at the teyrn’s palace, covered in wood carvings depicting the Qunari battles in excruciating detail. The artist is even a mage!”

Cullen was obviously a little confused by the lesson in Ostwick history and art. All that had been almost two ages ago, after all.

“Oh, you mean they were wary of the shipwrecked Qunari? I suppose rightly so, seeing as they attempted to take over.”

“Wary is putting it mildly. I don’t know what went in writing between Viscount Dumar and the teyrn,” Leliana shrugged. “But everyone in Ostwick was on the tips of their toes. The Circle of Magi was still being trained in offensive magic, but not in coordinated battle anymore. The Kirkwall Qunari were just what it needed to get back into full swing. They looked for someone to train the mages, but most southern Circles were just as out of touch. Only Fereldan mages had recently fought against the Blight, but Kinloch Hold had barely started recovering.”

Josephine shot Leliana a stern warning look while the Commander squirmed.

“Anyway,” Leliana carried on in a light tone, “that wasn’t the only place where mages fought against darkspawn. Some Hossberg mages routinely join Grey Wardens in their battles, due to being ranged and hence not at much risk of infection. Ostwick wrote to them, and got back a former mage of their own, one enchanter Greving, who had spent the better part of two decades alongside the Wardens.”

“The First Enchanter?” Josephine exclaimed. He had signed libertarian on the list of mages, and if one’s distaste for templars could be measured, preferring the company of darkspawn would indicate it was pretty significant.

“The wonders war does for people’s careers,” Leliana smiled sweetly. “He started training the mages immediately after arriving, and while they took out at most a few Tal-Vashoth who had wandered in, the people of Ostwick felt safer. He only became First Enchanter after his predecessor, First Enchanter Helenia, died at the White Spire.”

“So no Qunari invasion, but the military training must have helped in the rebellion,” Cullen sighed.

“Why the sullen face, Commander? If the two of you talk advances now, I’m sure you’d prefer those be of military nature.” Leliana smirked at him, with just a smidgen of malice, and Josephine couldn’t hold back a laugh.

“He did what?!”

“To be frank, I think he was mocking me more than anything else. I’ve gotten used to mages disliking me on principle. He tired of it soon enough, but, Maker, was it awkward.” The Commander sighed again, unhappily.

“I suppose that got them started on the goodwill with the populace as well,” Josephine said. If things had been relatively quiet in the years before the rebellion, people might have had enough confidence in the mages. The Ostwick Circle _had_ been viewed as rather sedate, although in light of what Leliana had said, the neutrality from 9:38 might have been the libertarians already having enough support to prevent a vote for the Chantry.

“Oh, that was just the start,” Leliana turned to go back to Haven. “Don’t forget who stood the tallest in the defeat of the Qunari.”

Josephine could see Cullen’s expression going from painful to conflicted to resigned within three seconds.

“Hawke. A mage.”

When they were back at Josephine’s office, having left the Commander with the recruits, she turned to Leliana.

“We are supposed to build a good working relationship as colleagues and friends, Leliana! I am deeply disappointed in you!”

“You wield guilt like a knife, Josie!” Leliana’s expression was one of profoundly faked repentance. “I was being nice! I didn’t even mention who the other senior enchanter in charge of alchemy had been!” 

* * *

_17 Kingsway, 9:41_

“It was… empowering,” Cassandra finally said. The four of them had gathered for a debriefing, albeit one only featuring Cassandra. Trevelyan had gone off to take a bath. Being able to have a bath ready in seconds, without needing servants or a few hundred sovereigns worth of dwarven technology sounded really convenient. Solas had retired to his cabin, likely to sleep. As for Varric, Cassandra had had enough of his talking.

“We are doing the right thing, and it is progressing better than I had expected,” she frowned. “When there is an immediate task at hand. The rest of the time was filled with incessant talks about dreams and the Fade. Or by Varric complaining about every stretch of uneven terrain, which was not helped by the Herald running off to scale every hill and wade through every river we came across. At least…” she paused briefly, “he doesn’t complain too much, and he’s less squeamish in battle than I thought he would be.”

“Mages are raised as weapons and taught little of the value of life, including their own,” Leliana’s tone was always a bit sharp when the topic cropped up. “We are lucky the situation in Ostwick required him to show consideration.”

“We had to sit down for a talk about him repeatedly putting himself in danger’s way,” Cassandra replied amicably. “Although it seemed less about him not valuing his own life, and more about being used to a different strategy. But we made it work, and he is more in control of his magic.”

The Hinterlands had been mostly cleared in the west, rifts closed and camps established. It would take a few more days for people to clean up the rest, and maybe to dare to return to their houses, but the foundations had been laid. The Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste had been accepted, and word was spreading through villages and farms. The nobles, however, safe in their mansions and castles, would need more courting than that, and the Inquisition would require their goodwill to survive. Cullen was against talks with the clerics, but with some scouts and soldiers, as well as Cassandra willing to go to Val Royeaux, all that remained was to convince Trevelyan himself. His restored birthright was also going to be useful, but the document needed to be brought to Val Royeaux, too, if anyone were to acknowledge it.

“Should we even do that?” Cassandra asked. “It puts him in a position to inherit land, and he is still a mage.”

“The Chantry has bigger concerns than Ostwick lands right now,” Leliana spoke. “He would be eighth in line to inherit, and my agents will make sure that his relatives stay alive.”

* * *

“It would have been nice if I’d had this some years ago,” Ray said with disdain, looking at the teyrn’s ordinance. He had read the letters without exhibiting much emotion, save for some impatience. “Cassandra said the choice of a new Divine needed to be unanimous. So I suppose I should follow Mother Giselle’s advice and try to pit clerics against each other on whether I’m a demon or not.” He smiled mischievously. “What if there were to be another schism in the Chantry? That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

“No! It would not. Please be serious. Little but the Chantry ties Orlais, Nevarra, Ferelden, Antiva, and even Rivain to a common cause.” Maybe not so much Rivain these days, where the noble families were barely holding onto Chantry support in the face of public outcry.

“The common cause of hating mages,” Trevelyan immediately rebuffed, stood up, and hastily stuffed the letters inside the box, dropping the lid closed. Josephine couldn’t read his expression, face hidden behind the fallen hair, but his voice was shaking when he spoke again. “I am with the Inquisition only to seal the Breach. The rest is not your fight.” When he picked up the box and turned to leave, Josephine jumped to her feet.

“Ray… please wait!”

Even the brothers and sisters in Haven seemed to have adopted some sort of view that the Inquisition’s role was to prove the Chantry wrong. Mother Giselle seemed pretty comfortable with being a heretic, as long as she was safe among the rest of the heretics. The core of the Inquisition wasn’t much farther off. First and foremost there was Leliana, teetering on the edge of losing her faith. Of which Ray didn’t seem to have any, and he didn’t have any love for the Chantry either. Cassandra was frustrated with the clerics squabbling in Val Royeaux, and Cullen was disillusioned with the Chantry in general. Perhaps if the Chantry was left weakened for the time being, they wouldn’t need its blessing.

Ray turned back to her, but rather than the distressed expression she was expecting, his face was back to the dispassion of earlier.

“What will you do when the Breach is sealed?” Maybe Leliana was right and without him they would struggle to get any support at all, with everything mired in chaos. It wasn’t just the Chantry that had lost its leaders, the mages and templars were as stranded as the clerics.

“Go back to Ostwick. Being the Herald of Andraste ought to get us somewhere, at least.”

“Perhaps the Inquisition could lend a hand.” She took a couple of steps toward him.

He chuckled and put the box back on the table. “With Ostwick? What would that cost me?”

“With Thedas.” Ray looked at her with a mix of disbelief and admiration.

“Planning to steer the history of the world, Ambassador Montilyet?” His mouth slid into a lopsided smile.

“History should look out, Lord Trevelyan.” Josephine tried to return the smile in kind. “I believe the Inquisition is already charting this course.” She wondered what else his mother had written, or what the mages had written, and now wished she had asked Leliana for details. At least she wasn’t using him against his own interests. “The price would be you staying with the Inquisition. I know your opinions run counter to those of some, but if you stay, you will be in a position to voice them where they will be heard.” He would probably find an ally in Leliana, provided she stopped scaring everyone. Josephine pictured herself in a mediator role again, in a quarrel bigger than that of any Antivan princes.

“I will think about it,” he finally said, the frown that had appeared on his face relaxing slightly. “I am not leaving yet anyway. Well, apart from going to Val Royeaux.”

“I have arranged for a ship from Jader.” He didn’t try to hide his pleased expression, so a ship had been the right choice indeed. “Also, a present came for you while you were away.”

“From my mother?”

“I am told your mother wished to send you some clothes, but our agent couldn’t accommodate such luggage himself. She will send them by ship to Jader. The present is from the Mages’ Collective.” She was about to add the customary ‘I didn’t say that’ but the look on his face had her pause and do her best to keep a dignified expression. It reminded her too much of that of her siblings when Satinalia would roll around. “It is a… horse.”

The rapt look slipped somewhat, but he still grabbed his coat and made for the door. “Is it in the stables?”

“It is… complicated. We had to house it elsewhere, I’ll come with you.”

Ray was already out of the door, so she placed the box with his birthright back on the shelf, then took her own cape and the letters from the Collective, and followed. They headed to a previously abandoned house behind the encampment, which she had given to the recently joined mages. The unfortunate horse had been placed in its similarly abandoned stables. Josephine had only taken one long, hard look at it, and given up all hope of a caparison concealing everything that was wrong. It certainly wouldn’t conceal a sword through the poor animal’s head, or rather the leather-covered skull. Ray was going through the letters with a confused expression on his face.

“An ‘evil marauder’ sounds very dramatic. Is it calm? I’m not sure I can handle a temperamental horse yet.”

“It has been very calm,” Josephine said with a defeated sigh. She wished that were one of the horse’s less disturbing qualities, but it had been calm to the extent of not moving at all. The mage who had come to draw out a wisp for her in the morning after the arrival had said that the horse had kept its frozen stance and ignored all distractions throughout the evening.

They climbed the last steps to the house on the hill and went past it to the back, where the stables were. They had only gone around the corner to glimpse at the bog unicorn when it turned its head toward them, and took a few forceful steps until it nudged against the fence. Josephine halted, surprised, and Ray stood next to her, looking at the animal with a mix of fascination and apprehension. She really hoped he wouldn’t like the present. The present, however, had apparently taken an interest in the Herald, for as soon as he took a few more steps, it started straining its neck toward him, torso pushing forward as well. Josephine wondered if this was something the Mages’ Collective had trained.

“I think it likes me!” Ray exclaimed jauntily, and that did seem to be the case indeed, as the bog unicorn was now nuzzling his hands. Satinalia it was, Josephine thought with resignation. “I thought there would be rotting meat hanging from it,” Ray sniffed at the horse’s mane. “But it doesn’t even smell like it. Or like anything at all.” He cast something, and appeared to be even more pleased than before, face lit with impish glee. “With this and a staff, people won’t forget that I’m a mage! I have to get someone to teach me how to saddle it. Maybe Cassandra, she won’t like it.”

He puttered around the horse merrily, chattering all the while, and Josephine decided to postpone her suggestion for a caparison for the time being. Maker only knew how all this would be taken by the people.

“I should name it. It can’t be a bog anything, maybe it should be a baron of some kind, with all the nobility around. Or a baroness?” He squatted, squinting at the underside of the horse critically, Josephine barely holding back from laughing. “I can’t tell. Maybe that means it’s a baroness? But it’s actually the spirit, isn’t it? Maybe I should go with bann instead.”

He stood up and turned to her.

“My pony was called Pebbles because she had all these little spots, but that name wouldn’t fit.” With all the bad mood, misgivings and worries seemingly gone, naming the bog unicorn had become the task of the day. “Equinor! That’s the horse constellation, isn’t it? Maybe it’s grand enough without a title.”

“It is very majestic,” Josephine managed to let out in a serious tone. Ignoring the fact that every fifth horse in the north was named that. “Pebbles” would have been disturbing on the bog unicorn.

An elder mage came out of the house, drawn in by all the noise, and gaped in amazement at the enthusiasm being displayed by the newly named Equinor. He inquired about entering the encampment, as apparently an altercation had ensued between the mages and the former templars. Cullen had reprimanded his men, and Josephine was glad Ray was around to hear this, as well as that the mages were welcome in the encampment at any time.

After what seemed like ages in the cold, Ray decided to get on with his plans of saddling and riding the horse, so they headed back. Josephine thought about suggesting a quick lesson in etiquette. A few minor nobles had arrived in Haven the previous day, and she hoped a few more could be approached in Jader. Ray hadn’t done much harm in the conversation with Marquis DuRellion, although it seemed he mostly walked a line between defensive and haughty. She thought at Bann Trevelyan’s schemings with some irritation. Obviously the woman had wanted to keep Ray a Trevelyan as much as the circumstances would allow for it, but she could have done better at instilling the correct behavior while parading him in front of relatives every First Day. Or he had stubbornly done the exact opposite of what she had taught him. That couldn’t be ruled out either.

“I’d like to discuss your parents.” Leliana had told her that the Herald’s father and younger sister had been at sea since before the events at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Ray probably got along with his father, the man’s ideals were those of a sailor, and he had reportedly resented his son being locked up almost as much as Ray had resented it himself.

“The seventh most illustrious family in all Ostwick? Or is it eighth?”

“Should we approach them for their formal support of the Inquisition? What are your thoughts?”

“I reckon if we close the Breach, that could get them to number six at least, so they won’t turn you down.” He didn’t look particularly conflicted one way or the other, and neither did he seem to put any thought behind calling his own family ‘them’.

He did agree to the lesson in etiquette and diplomacy quite readily, and they split at the encampment’s gates, with him off to tear Cassandra away from her practice dummies.

When he appeared a few hours later, Josephine wasn’t too surprised to hear that he would take Equinor rather than a carriage to Jader.

* * *

_22 Kingsway, 9:41_

_”The Chantry is no longer a threat to us. Picked up a Red Jenny magic archer.”_ What on earth does either of these things mean?”

“I think he just wanted to write something to send with Baron Plucky.” Leliana said. “My agents were a bit less cryptic.”

Listening to Leliana’s report, Josephine couldn’t tell whether Val Royeaux had been a success. The remaining clerics didn’t seem so much splintered as they seemed beaten down after the last of the templars had abandoned them in an utterly humiliating way. Val Royeaux itself was in shock at both Chantry and templars, so at least the Inquisition could fill the void of reliability, or try to. The real victory had been perhaps meeting Grand Enchanter Fiona. As soon as she herself had made it back to Redcliffe, they would get to talk to the mages at last.

“What about this Red Jenny person? Are they some archer apostate?”

“I haven’t looked into the Red Jennies lately, they are a loosely organized group. Aileas used to run into them, or run with them, when she was in the mood to play the Dark Wolf of Denerim. I will investigate.”

Josephine smiled at the memories. Leliana’s pranks were by and on their own spectacular, but Amell joining in raised the bar of the elaborate and buried the one of propriety in the ground. The woman appeared capable of sneaking in absolutely everywhere. Leliana had been so much happier in those days, just a bard spoiling her lover. The images were strangely vivid with seven years gone by.

“Oh, right,” Leliana spoke absentmindedly. “I sent a bird recommending that he hires the Chargers.”

Josephine gaped at her. She had been very polite to Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi, but had mostly set him up for disappointment. They could use some forty trained mercenaries, and even with their finances still running low, the price was good. Enthusiastic as the new recruits were, they were mostly simple peasants and pilgrims. However, a Qunari leading the band seemed too antagonistic to even consider.

Leliana shrugged. “At worst Trevelyan will simply kill this Iron Bull, at best he’ll have someone new to badger. Even Varric is starting to get himself in hot water with the Herald.”

“But Master Tethras is such a clever talker!” Surely Varric would know what to say, and when. Besides, that wasn’t how this worked. Josephine had met her fair share of nobles who excelled at antagonizing a lot of people, without the need to balance between them.

“Not so much when it comes to mages and templars, it seems. Anyway, if the Qunari is a spy and we turn him away, they might send someone we’d never notice. They might do so anyway, but we still get the mercenaries. They have good references, he might really be a deserter as well. Right now I am more concerned about all the Tevinters that keep appearing, at least the Chargers are getting rid of one of their groups.”

Josephine resigned herself to budgeting money for the Chargers and preparing for more conflict in the increasingly colorful Inquisition.


	9. Chapter 9

_23 Kingsway, 9:41_

Sera slouched back, put the pencil down and shook her wrist, cursing. That Seeker woman had some grip. She hadn’t been about to shoot the Herald, she had meant to defend him from the demon. Only the demon had turned out to be _his_. She had been slightly taken back when she’d seen that the Herald was indeed a mage. But, trust Andraste to know better, right? She had trusted, and now she was stuck on the deck of a rich tit’s pleasure ship, in the company of a bunch of nobs and a demon horse. The thing might have _been_ a horse once, now it was something else. A dead something, or was it undead? Same difference, should be ashes. Also, the elfiest elf she had ever met. It would have been less of a pain in the arse if that Solas was the insulting type, but, no, of course he had to be the ‘woe is you’ whiner variety. Of course they would all be weirdies. What did _Inquisition_ even mean? At least they sort of got the gist on the Red Jennies. Well, not Cassandra. And Varric didn’t think it worked. Solas didn’t get what it was about. As for the Herald, she didn’t know what he thought. Like, maybe he was a bit surprised that there was such a thing. But he’d been fine with it. Cause he didn’t know much about any people, it seemed. Or he liked pranks and revenge.

“Sorry it scared you,” his voice made her jump. Why was a mage sneaky? He had taken off the fancy nob clothes _and_ lost the staff. At least some things scratched off the _things that are wrong_ list, and then she noticed the grey cat he was holding, almost invisible against the fur of his cloak.

“You need to say, like, if that’s your demon pet. Cause I’m out if it is.” Just how broken were these people anyway?

“It’s just the ship’s mouser. Or maybe someone’s cat, there don’t seem to be any mice around.” He nodded down at the couch. “May I?”

“Your frigging ship, innit?” she snorted and moved a bit farther out. The Herald sat at the other end and let the cat off his forearm and onto the empty space between them.

“It’s not mine,” he frowned and continued staring at the cat. “It’s some Jader noble’s… I forgot her name.” He cocked his head to look at her. “It was very Orlesian, and I was very tired. I suppose I should inquire about it before it’s time for us to go thank her for lending us her ship.”

So that Inquisition didn’t even have its own ship, they had to grovel to other nobs. Not quite what the tales in Val Royeaux had been like. The glow hadn’t been much either, the Herald had to take off his glove for her to see it.

“Thought you’d glow more. Andraste should’ve given you more glow and less horse!”

“The horse was a present from the Collective.”

The “Collective” was, as it turned out, the Mages’ Collective. A shadow-guild that the Herald had tried to contact many times before, never with any success. And they were in contact with the Inquisition now. Shadow-guild sounded fun, but one made up of mages was the exact opposite of that. Even if they weren’t dealing with corpses and demons, which they evidently were. She _could_ deal with a demony horse for the sake of the cause. If the demon stayed in the horse, doing horse things. This one wasn’t doing all the horse things, because it was dead, but still, horse enough. What she couldn’t deal with was the demon jumping into the Herald, but he had laughed that off, because of course he would do that. At least the elfy elf was unhappy about it, though it was about the demon being stuck in the horse, maybe. So it should stay there and look like a creepy horse. Also it glowed more, the Herald said, the mark did. Around rifts, from which demons fell out. After a few minutes the demons talk got too much for her. Magey mages and their frigging demons.

“Anyway, stopping wars should earn more sovereigns than this. Need things back to normal for coins to be flowing again. Another reason the templars and mages need to be sat down. There is a hole in the sky, it’s weird and right there, and you still want to punch each other?”

“While you’re not picking sides we could watch templars punching clerics. Too bad it didn’t go on for long enough for the problem to solve itself.” That wasn’t very funny. Okay, it had been somewhat funny, but not now. “Anyway, had enough of sitting at the Conclave.” He looked a bit kicked after that and shut up for quite a few seconds. “We are going to get the mages from Redcliffe to help with closing the Breach.”

“Bugger that!”

“I take it you don’t like mages.”

“No problem with mages. You’re fine, right? My problem is _magic_. If mages sat on their hands, everything would be fine.”

“I like magic,” he muttered. Well, no surprise for anyone there. “It doesn’t have to be dangerous all the time, not that the Chantry cared for that.” There was some anger in his eyes now, and she shrank back a bit, angry mages weren’t good news. “If the war is to be stopped, I doubt there will be any more negotiating with either the Chantry or the templars. Maybe we can get nobles to pressure the Chantry into backing off.”

So he was going to make friends with lords and ladies, in Jader to start with. And get money from them. Cause Haven was probably a dump in the ice, from what it sounded like. Sera tried to wrap her head around all of this again. He was just too many things. A mage, a nob, the Chosen of Andraste. Some people in Val Royeaux said that the Inquisition was a power grab, so what if they knocked over a few arses only to turn into arses themselves? She decided to start with what she knew best.

“Lord Trevelyan. Anyone who thinks they need ‘lord’ in front of their name, that’s bad. Or is it Lord Herald now?” He rolled his eyes like it was her fault he had more than one name.

“Lord is for the nobles. It will be helpful, though not really needed at this point. Still better than being called ‘mage’.” She hadn’t been about to call him “mage”. He was a mage, but she hated people calling her “elf”, so that made sense. Some small bit of it, at least. “Herald is… I don’t know, for the believers? Whatever works for them. Or you. And in general. The name is Ray otherwise.”

She could feel herself gaping a bit. “What? You’re just going to tell something different to everyone? That’s too complicated!” She didn’t like complicated.

“I’m not telling them anything. They can pick and choose.” He grinned a bit. “Where do you stand on it?”

“I think… you might be a little chosen? Maybe. You’re no hateful arse. So far.” She had expected more religious everyone all around, but these people were already weird enough. That would make it weirder.

“Playing it safe?” This time he laughed, but at least the laugh wasn’t weird. “When has aiming for in between made your arrows hit?”

“Shut it up with your picking sides thing! Here’s how it goes. I help you - march-march-arrow-kick - then people stop being stupid, and everything starts to make sense again. It’s why I’m here, yeah? This is where it gets done, whatever it is.”

“End all war, stitch the sky? The easy one first, of course.”

Sera giggled. Daft crazies.

* * *

_24 Kingsway, 9:41_

Climbing down the chain holding the anchor had been a piece of cake. She’d soaked the seaweed nicely, that would improve morale. Maybe. Dinner had been as depressing as it gets the previous night, with everyone all bloody serious and somber-faced. The Seeker had kept pondering aloud, about what arse-face Lord Seeker Lucius was doing, the Herald, Ray, had kept shrugging it off. Also, Cassandra roughing up people seemed to be her way of saying hello.

Hopefully Ray would remember his promise not to attack her with magic. She didn’t know what to make of the white light that came from under his cabin’s door. It was too early, the sun wouldn’t be out for a couple more minutes. She opened the door without a sound and sneaked in. The light was hovering above the desk and the Herald had her back to her, writing something. No cloak either, just a shirt, he’d feel it more. She suppressed a giggle and slid further in. She’d seen light shows from mages at nobs’ parties, at least the shadows around the rooms were so much thicker for it.

He jumped in his chair, really jumped, when she dropped the seaweed under the shirt’s collar at his back. She giggled, this time for real, and darted into the deepest shadow. She had left the door open, so he’d think she was out. Only he didn’t. Instead, the stupid light flew back and forth across the cabin, and then right into her face.

“Good morning,” his voice was sort of dry and he sounded annoyed, a bit, but not angry. And he was holding the seaweed in his hand. How had he pulled it out that quickly?

“Morning,” she snickered loudly. “Just having a laugh, yeah? No hard feelings?”

“You ruined my drawing,” he said with a mild frown, and she quickly got out of the corner and to the table. The drawing was a mess. Not because of the thick line of ink across it, the pencil underneath was what was crazy. Everything in it seemed to warp on itself and into each other.

“What’s this weird mess?”

Ray dusted the parchment with sand and shrugged. “It’s something I saw in a dream.” The light disappeared and he opened the shutters, letting the dawn in. “They’ve been getting less weird, especially now that we are at sea.”

Sera shuddered. She had fun dreams sometimes, and would remember bits and pieces occasionally in the mornings. Or something would happen, and it would trigger a memory of a dream, but those were always vague and barely there, just a nagging feeling that something had happened before. Not like this.

“You dream crap like that every night?” She took the paper. It sort of made her feel her stomach being there, and it wasn’t a nice feeling. “And remember it?”

“The ‘crap like that’ is recent, but I’ve always remembered my dreams. Well, ever since coming into my magic, anyway. It’s partly my decision, I can’t seem to go completely unaware in the Fade, and the middle ground is the most uncomfortable. So I just stay conscious all the time.”

“All right, weirdie, can you turn that talk off now? I’m not listening to this before breakfast. Or after breakfast, yeah?” He nodded, and she pulled one of her own drawings. “See, that’s what drawings are like when normal people do them.”

He took the paper and unfolded it, giving it the same blank look he had given her when she’d revealed the “no breeches” strategy.

“Erm, what is this depicting exactly?”

“Knives, what else? That have other knives along the blades, but are actually arrows.” She really had to get someone on the job of making some for her.

“Is it something _you_ saw in the Fade?”

“Piss off! Is that all you mages think about? Fade, Veil, war, stupid!” She knew a couple of mages, and they were all a bit weird, even if they were mostly alright. But this Inquisition had weirder. Did she even have an exit strategy?

“Arrows.” She said at last, decisively. Now, _that_ threw him off and he didn’t have that all-knowing face anymore. Like with that mage in Val Royeaux. Arrow in, mage out. “Things go tits up, I’ll put arrows through them.”

“You do seem to like arrows a great deal. Have you tried putting one into the Breach?”

“I have. Doesn’t come down. That’s… weird.”

He handed her the drawing back, and his hands were both there when the seaweed landed on her head, one end sticking to her forehead. He _hadn’t_ tossed it.

“Oh, har-dee-har. All funny, you. Can’t gross me out with some seaweed on my head. Need to put in in people’s clothes. Or beds. As a surprise.” She stuffed the drawing back into her pocket and that’s when she felt something trickling down, along her nose, and it smelled kinda bad, too.

“Surprise? It looks like it has suddenly started decomposing.” Sera wiped her face, and wished she could wipe that shit-eating grin off his face too. She made for his bed to get one of those fancy sheets, but he was quick enough to grab her arm and pull her towards the door and onto the deck. “Let’s go find you a bucket.”

They found the cleaner’s bucket quickly enough, a rope tied to it for drawing from the sea. Ray picked it up.

“Lean your head over the bulwark a bit.” She did, not quite understanding why. She _did not_ jump and splutter when a bucketful of water was poured on her hair. It was warm, too. Shit, shit, shit. Freaking magic. “Now your hands.” She opened first one eye, then the other, straightened and turned to look at the Herald. He was actually still holding the bucket. Sera stretched her neck to look inside, and it was still half-full. Shit, shit, shit. She stretched her hands out and was relieved when Ray simply poured over them the contents of the bucket… and it was empty after that.

She pulled back, squeezed out as much water from her hair as she could and gritted her teeth.

“You’re a little shit, you are!”

“You’ll catch a cold.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Fine, _I_ will catch a cold.” He turned to head back to the cabins. “Where are you from anyway? Strange as you talk, I understand you more than I do the Orlesians.”

“Ferelden. Denerim for a bit. South. North. Wherever I want.” Why was she following him anyway? He went back in and she stopped at the door, watching him rummage through a chest. The towel he tossed her was really soft and fluffy.

“I’m from North Wherever!”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Frigging weirdies.

* * *

_26 Kingsway, 9:41_

“I can’t believe we are wasting days on some Qunari! We should be going to Redcliffe!” He wasn’t yelling, but he was being louder than usual and was looking at Cassandra unhappily. She waved some paper around.

“Leliana writes that Redcliffe is still closed off. And this isn’t just the mercenaries business any longer, soldiers of ours have disappeared on the coast. Leliana also wants to look into some Grey Warden business.” Cassandra shook her head. “Our people are dealing with the Hinterlands, we will head there as soon as Grand Enchanter Fiona is spotted anywhere. So far she hasn’t gone through Gherlen’s Pass, nor been seen getting off a ship.”

“She could have come to us in Haven if the place weren’t crawling with templars!”

The two had been at it for a while, and the ship was a long way east of Jader now. They had left for the Storm Coast late in the night. Jader had been boring. Well, apparently it had been quite successful, but Sera hadn’t gone around to all the noble arses. Ray hadn’t been fun that day, just squeezing his eyes and asking her not to make things more of a pain than they already were for him. She had gone around gathering information on the Trevelyans instead, only there wasn’t much as far as servants went. Plenty knew the name and about a fairly big estate on the Ostwick coast, even with its own harbor, but little about the people in it. Some at the docks knew of the Herald’s father, who apparently hunted pirates, but that was about it.

“We are not going to start getting people converted to the Qun, are we?” Sera asked Ray when Cassandra had walked off somewhere. Solas had said his piece about the Breach being calm for now, and that seemed to have been what the Seeker had needed to leave the argument. Ray wasn’t happy about any of it though, and his reply was spat out testily.

“Are you insane? Do you know what they do to their mages?” Well, she had heard, and it wasn’t her fault what they did to mages. They did something to other people too, only Sera wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

“Let’s play cards then.” He simply shook his head. No fun. “I’m going to ask around about you Trevelyans, just so you know.”

“Ask about what exactly?” He hadn’t been expecting the change in topic.

“The people you use. Cooks, squires… wipers?” He gave her this weirded out look, and she huffed. “Yeah, I know. Wipers, right? You better believe the ones with wipers deserve it right in the… anyway, we’ll see.”

“Well, when you see, take it up with my mother. It has long stopped being my home.”

“Riiight, _your_ servants don’t complain at all. They’re weirder than you are.” She could feel the exact moment he stopped being angry and annoyed and turned completely cold.

“The Tranquil. The ‘servants’ are just the ones that the Chantry couldn’t make money off after mutilating them. They don’t complain because they never feel anything. They just… are.” He sighed and turned his back to the sea, leaning back and giving her some semblance of a smile. “It’s probably one of the things plenty of mages feel weirded out by, as much as you do. The Qun isn’t the only evil out there. You go play cards with Varric, I’m going back inside. We’ll pass Kirkwall soon.”

He walked away and Solas soon followed. Sera plopped down on the couch opposite of Varric. The fringes of the waxed fabric of the huge parasol above them fluttered in the wind, and it wasn’t sunny enough for them to need a parasol, but it turned the light pinkish, and the couch seemed even redder.

“Leave it be, Buttercup.” Varric said, shuffling a deck of cards. “The Tranquil aren’t a good thing to mention to a Circle mage. There are a few in Haven, the Herald looks away every time they pass by.”

Whatever that “buttercup” was about. Sera crossed her legs and stretched to the table for the carafe of grape juice. There were also these little crumbly cakes the Orlesians liked. She had been on such a ship just once, and certainly not as a legitimate passenger. It wasn’t a bad trip, though she seemed to be the only one who was enjoying it.

“So Cassandra kidnapped you? Why are you still here? Don’t you want to get off at Kirkwall?”

“Same reason as you, being part of something that’s out to do the right thing. There isn’t much I can do for Kirkwall, not now. Plus the harbor is still full of debris, so don’t count on us stopping there, not that it was ever the plans.” He dealt the cards. “Maybe we should get some of the crew, it’s a bit boring with just two. Or I can pay extra attention to you trying to cheat.”

“Pfft. You’re clever, but that’s not about being clever.” It _was_ a bit boring with just two. “So what do you think of all this?” Varric looked at her quizzically. “Mages here, and more mages coming. Is he going to fix things?”

“He’s been through enough shit and he’s still here, I think that’s what counts most now. Maybe he really is chosen.” Sera collected her hand. If she had been cheating, he wouldn’t have noticed. “Mages… who can say. They can be loyal friends, if you let them. Perhaps too loyal. Then again the mages I’ve known all ended up making bad decisions. Maybe it was the times.”

Varric was more depressing than the rest of them together. “Right, cause the times are just peachy now. What’s to worry about?”

* * *

_27 Kingsway, 9:41_

“Aren’t we going to go in and attack?” Sera lowered her bow when Ray sat down on some rocks away from the fight that was playing out on the grassy beach.

“It’s a mess, and we were invited to watch. We’ll hire them if they live.” He was looking towards the sea more than he was paying attention to the figures fighting. She could tell the Qunari at once, he was towering above Tevinters and his own people, and was swinging a huge axe. Sera scrunched her nose and turned eyes to the sea as well. It was a better sight. Or she could try picturing the smooshy scout Harding that had met them at the camp. The ship’s captain hadn’t dared approaching the coast, both for fear of underwater rocks and bandits. The crew had lowered a boat for them, and one of the sailors had taken it back after dropping them off. Solas had stayed back, asleep. Varric had stayed back, depressed. Or it was really the mountain, or the Qunari.

She didn’t go close after the massacre had ended, though Cassandra did, together with the Herald. They didn’t get along, but she was still hovering around him, and Sera didn’t think even the huge Qunari would stand much of a chance against her if he were to attack Ray. Then again Ray himself wasn’t all defenseless either. They had walked into some bandits, or the bandits had run into them, on their way to scout Harding’s camp. It had been scary, the spells had been. Sera had even thought that Ray was going to kill the Seeker together with the bandits, but then Cassandra had just laughed it off and been all condescending, not being afraid of magic and all that. She had said her sorries later, still being a stuck up nob about it.

The big Qunari ended up joining them in the search for the Inquisition soldiers. And of course the soldiers had been killed, but instead of just going to avenge them and rid the place of some bandits, the Iron Bull suggested taking the opportunity to challenge their leader and take over the group. Even Cassandra grunted something in disgust. “Challenges”, right. Biggest sword wins. Or staff, whatever. She rolled her eyes when Ray decided to go along with Bull’s idea. He hadn’t made fun of her for being afraid of magic, or of demons, when they had come across one of those green rifts in the air. She was an archer anyway, staying behind, but Ray had flung his damn magic as close to Bull as he did to Cassandra, nevermind that the Qunari wasn’t any sort of templar. “Challenges”, right.

Sera had already gathered that this Inquisition was nothing like the people she was used to occasionally run into. They meant business, serious business, and barely flinched at anything. So she was glad to stay to the side together with Cassandra while Ray did his staff swinging and challenged the leader of the Blades of Hessarian. The poor bastard didn’t stand a chance against the mage, and that even with Cassandra telling her to be be ready to shoot, since apparently the Herald’s magic was not all there. The Hessarian let out some hounds though, and she was about to take them out, but then Bull moved in. The nasty crunch of bones and the severed heads were worse than the Hessarian prick, who was all in ice, with lightning shooting through it. At least that had stayed in once piece.

The religious ones came out to swear fealty to their new boss, and they were probably pissing themselves with happiness, getting to work for the Herald of Andraste. Everyone believing too hard seemed to be what had caused a lot of the mess, she couldn’t wait to get away from this place. At least they gave Ray whatever they had found on some Grey Wardens and were put to the task to watch out for more.

Bull didn’t end up sinking their boat by walking into it, and went to join his people on the way to Haven by land. Scout Harding wished the Herald safe journey (and her too!), but there had been no more news from the Inquisition’s spymaster.

* * *

_2 Harvestmere, 9:41_

“That was fun, yeah?” The stupid mages had nearly fried themselves trying to get rid of the bees. “Who knew you mages were so bad at keeping bees away, that’s gotta be helpful. Don’t worry, not gonna join the helmet-polishers and teach them.”

“Good,” Ray replied dryly. “Because I’d sic some wasps on you.”

“Sic some if you find them, _I_ can set them on fire better than you mages. There aren’t any, are there, not in this place anyway. Have to get my people to collect me some bees.”

Haven had been small. And stupid, and smelly. She was glad to be out in the Hinterlands instead, but they hadn’t let them in the mages’ village anyway, and Ray had been upset. She had even offered to climb the walls, cause that would have been easy, but he’d stopped her. Too dangerous to go over the walls of a place the mages defended, he’d said. And yeah, it had been a stupid thing to offer anyway, she didn’t want to land in a village full of mages. But then they had wandered into some apostates’ camp and had been surrounded by mages anyway. And now he was being upset again, cause only about half had run off, the rest were lying dead.

“They were baddies, want me to prop one up for you to apologize?” She huffed. Varric was silently signaling for her to shut up. Fine, but they had given the mages all the time to stop attacking, with Ray and Solas doing weird spells and Varric doing traps.

“The Hinterlands should be safer now, if this was the stronghold of the mages who were causing the havoc with the templars.” Cassandra spoke. “They were just as deluded as the templars we cleared out to the west.”

“Since when are templars out to hunt mages deluded? That’s exactly what they do anyway, stuff everybody in the Circle, or kill them. Only now there is no Circle.”

“Well, this lot was out to take over the world, so good riddance, I say?” Varric gesticulated at her again, then fled the cave.

“That’s exactly how this works!” The Herald snapped at her. “Draw some glyphs, take over the world. One Fereldan cave at a time. Why did I spend twenty years in the Circle when that’s all it took?” Oh well. She waited around a bit while he gathered some notes and stuff from around the cave. They’d be off to wander the place anyway, and they’d talk about something else. It was a bit of a drag, she didn’t know stupid fields and forests. Or hills. Hills and demons was all the Hinterlands seemed to have. And skulls on sticks, at least they had gotten rid of those. And of crazy mages, even if other mages were all pouting about it.

* * *

_3 Harvestmere, 9:41_

They were riding back to the Crossroads from yet another group of weirdies stuck in a castle, worshiping the hole in the sky. So now the Inquisition had more wackos working for them. Why couldn’t they recruit someone normal? Scout Ritts had been sort of normal, and not too elfy. And daring enough for a roll in the hay with her girlfriend … well, with a mage, so not too normal.

“I can make you some bees, if you keep them reserved for our enemies, you know.” Ray spoke all of the sudden.

“Right, make me bees. Are you going to bust out some demony bees from the Fade? Oooh, the Fade is buzzy here!” She stuck out her tongue at Solas, who was looking at her all offended.

“Bees aren’t summoned exactly.”

“Where do you pull them out of then, your arse? Thank you, but no thank you, Lord Herald. Keep your Fade bees in your own damn Fade jars.”

Ray grinned and shook his head. “I like your alchemy tricks, could help you with some of them is all I’m saying. Thought you were a mage for a little bit when we fought those,” he chuckled, “without the breeches.”

“Oh piss off, my tricks don’t come with demons.”

Some normal that was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... oculara and shards. The oculara have a role to play, but the shards, well, the Venatori must have found them already, why wouldn't they?


	10. Chapter 10

_3 Harvestmere, 9:41_

Blackwall watched the few “conscripts” leave after the battle, carrying their weapons with some self-confidence. It had taken him a while to realize why some of the attacks by the bandits had failed to meet their targets, deflected as if by miracle. Then again the man that had been in his face minutes ago hadn’t flinched at the arrow, which, Blackwall thought at the time, would have nearly killed him. He had more time to look at the mage now. He didn’t look like an apostate, dressed in what appeared to be the hunting garments of some noble. Ostwick, he thought. That was barely a day’s ride from Markham.

“You are no farmer, why do you know my name? Who are you?”

The man seemed to ponder how to reply to that, and a blond elven girl marched forward instead.

“Knock-knock, Inquisition!” she growled. The mage snorted and finally one of the others decided to take charge of the situation.

“We are Inquisition, trying to find out why the Orlesian Wardens disappeared, and if it had anything to do with the Divine’s murder.” She was a warrior, like him.

He didn’t know what to make neither of the information, nor of the questions that followed. It wasn’t as if he could give any answers to them, but the whole idea of Grey Wardens having something to do with the Divine’s murder was absurd. The group was going to leave him there, and it didn’t take him long to ask them to allow him to join the Inquisition. He had seen their scouts and soldiers at work, and had heard of the Herald of Andraste. It seemed to be the one organization that was currently doing anything to help, and that was a better place for him than any other.

* * *

_4 Harvestmere, 9:41_

It was strange to be traveling in company again, after such a long time. Especially in such bizarre company. He had heard contradicting stories about whether the Herald of Andraste was a mage, but indeed he was, and he never confirmed having been saved by Andraste either. He also seemed less disappointed by not getting to find out anything about the missing Wardens than he was about Blackwall not having met the Hero of Ferelden. That seemed to kill most desire for conversation, and the Herald went to ride his extremely ugly horse monster next to the other mage, to talk to him instead.

Sera was the kind to make dirty jokes about the Breach, and spew a lot of nonsense in general. He could get behind that. Varric was way too prodding and inquisitive, but seemed to finally settle on Blackwall reminding him of someone he didn’t like, so they left it at that. Seeker Pentaghast seemed to be the only really down to earth person, just nice and concise enough to welcome a Grey Warden to the Inquisition.

They had traveled east, circling Redcliffe and killing time while waiting to be admitted into the village, which had become more of a fortified little town after the Blight. Blackwall wasn’t quite in the clear what they intended to do with the Redcliffe mages, but halfway through the day it started dawning on him that something more than just a hole in the sky was looming. After they had cleared some bandits alongside the Imperial Highway, the Breach had taken backseat to semi-comprehensible conversations about red lyrium mining conspiracies. It didn’t seem to him they knew exactly what was going on, but it was apparently enough to have them mighty worried, writing letters and sending birds while scouts were setting up an Inquisition camp.

“Ray! Cassandra!” Sera came running with excited squeaks and giggles. Of course she had wandered off during all the serious time. “Come see what I found! It’s… phwoar!”

Figured that they would be the kind of people whose day was brightened up by seeing a dragon. They watched her flying high, until she came down rapidly and nearly caught them in her fiery breath, making them duck back under the overarching rocks.

“Wow, wow, she’s so big! And breathes fire!” Sera was jumping up and down like a wild thing, laughing all the time. The Herald coughed and did some magic trick to make fire appear as if it was coming out of his mouth and the elf laughed even more maniacally, nearly choking. “You’re not big enough! Get it?”

Even Cassandra was smiling, and Blackwall turned to her.

“They say your family almost drove the dragons to extinction. A shame. Majestic beasts.”

“Majestic? Say that after you see a pile of dragon shit bigger than your house.”

Now he had to think of that. The Herald, or Trevelyan, as he would rather be called, told them of some stray wyvern, probably having wandered in from Starkhaven, and her weird droppings. The conversation only got more graphic after that, and probably would have reached disturbing levels if a scout hadn’t come running.

“Your Worship! News of riders leaving Redcliffe! And a new rift has opened there, spewing demons!”

The laughter stopped and the four of them ran back to the camp where Solas and Varric were already waiting on their horses. The last thing they heard before leaving in a hurry was a scout telling them that one of their people had gotten inside Redcliffe before the gates had fallen shut again.

* * *

With the road to Redcliffe cleared and open for the journey, it didn’t take them long to get there. A soldier cowering behind a ridge warned them of the demons ahead. Demons he had seen and fought, but it was the first time Blackwall had gotten close to one of the rifts. The ones he had seen had stopped throwing out demons when the Breach had calmed, but this one was open, and the ground around it was drowned in the same green light that emanated from the rift itself.

They jumped from their horses and he ran toward it, together with Cassandra, to take point. As soon as he stepped close he knew something was wrong. He could move freely, it wasn’t like being held back, but his movements were sluggish and he felt disoriented by the unnatural change in pace. He moved a couple of steps, trying to escape the feeling of quagmire around him, only to step onto a spot that made his movements so much faster, he feared his arm might fly off. He turtled up, choosing to simply bait the demons and defend while the archers and mages picked them off one by one.

Trevelyan had stepped into one of those quickening places as well, it seemed, and the rapid magic flying at demons was astounding. Blackwall had just enough coordination to smash a frozen body now and then, while staying out of the way. It came as a surprise then, when the magic started coming a lot more sporadically. It was only Solas’, he realized and looked up, alarmed, to see whether the Herald wasn’t in danger. He was just standing there, hand raised to his face, looking at his fingers in confusion. Blackwall saw blood from his nose reaching his lips, and then Trevelyan suddenly almost disappeared, moving faster than he had ever seen anyone move, only to crash into a demon. Blackwall cursed when the demon sunk its claws in the Herald’s shoulder, but before he could move, the two were flying apart from each other. An arrow and two of Varric’s crossbow bolts pierced the demon’s skull almost at the same time while Solas cast on Trevelyan what Blackwall had come to recognize as one of those mage barriers.

Cassandra finished off the last of the demons still around them, and that was good, because Blackwall had almost lost the ability to pay attention to them, watching in awe as the rift was being closed. So that was the real power of the Herald of Andraste.

They came out of the battle more battered up than usual, but a few potions and healing spells took care of closing their wounds. Trevelyan’s sleeve was still soaked in blood though, and Blackwall wondered if he truly was all right. He had never been healed by a spirit healer, but had come to understand that neither of the two mages was one, and that their healing spells did very little compared to those of an actual healer.

“What… was _that_?” The Herald was still breathing hard. “I thought my heart was going to jump out.”

“That rift altered the flow of time around itself. That is… unexpected.” Solas replied. Unexpected didn’t seem to do the situation justice. “It affected out bodies as well. We have to be careful, should there be more rifts like this one.”

“This is the first we know of a rift appearing after the Breach was calmed.” There was just as much worry in Cassandra’s voice.

They might have stood there and stared at each other for longer, but the soldier from before ran by, giving a sharp whistle.

“Maker have mercy! It’s over? Open the gates!”

Trevelyan could barely wait for the gates to open, darting into Redcliffe as soon as the portcullis was halfway up. Sera yelled that she was going to stay back because “mages”, but he wasn’t paying any attention to her. The rest of them followed him in. A scout in the familiar uniform walked up and informed them that he had started spreading word of the Inquisition, but that nobody had been expecting them. Whatever that grand enchanter had offered, the mages knew nothing of.

“The Veil is weaker here than in Haven. And not merely weak but altered in a way I have not seen.” Solas spoke.

An elven mage came running. “Agents of the Inquisition, my apologies! Magister Alexius is in charge now, but hasn’t yet arrived. He’s expected shortly. You can speak with the former grand enchanter in the meantime.” After dropping that on them, he turned and walked back to the center of the village.

“So Fiona is back after all? And now Tevinter is getting involved as well,” Trevelyan sighed, leaning against the stone wall. “I wonder if they rebelled against Fiona as well, if that’s what he meant by ‘former’ grand enchanter.”

“Andraste’s ass…”, Varric muttered. “I’m trying to think of a single worse thing they could have done. And I’ve got nothing.”

“Hm,” the Herald bristled. “There’s worse for mages than Tevinter. But why would they send a magister only now? Let’s go meet Fiona and see what she has to say about any of this.” The scout directed them to the village tavern. The castle, he said, was off limits to anyone.

Blackwall looked around on their way to the tavern. The ones that were obviously mages, be it the clothes or the staves, actually looked the most worried and scared. The Redcliffe people the group passed by seemed relieved by the news of the Hinterlands having been cleared, and fairly calm about the mages in their own village, confident that they would protect them from whatever was outside. The only mages that looked unconcerned though… they had to be, there were too many of them.

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall muttered. “Are all of these mage children? Did the rebels hide them here?”

“Well, there weren’t any at the Conclave… on in the Witchwoods, luckily.” Trevelyan sighed. “Probably not all of them, unless there are a few hundred more. The Ostwick Circle was tiny and we’d have a dozen at any given time.”

Blackwall could almost hear the cries of children at the templars’ hands and it chilled him to the bone. He knew that mages were dangerous, that the conflict wouldn’t have an easy solution, but some things were never justified.

* * *

The conversation between Trevelyan, Fiona and Magister Gereon Alexius that Blackwall had witnessed at the tavern had left him unsettled. The story had been confusing, but even beyond that it had been the Tevinter’s attitude that worried him. The man had quickly turned his attention away from the rest of them, and had bored eyes into the Herald. He hadn’t seemed worried about the Breach, rather the notion of sealing it had been deemed ‘ambitious’, and Trevelyan himself - ‘interesting’. The haughty attitude had only abandoned him when his son Felix had nearly collapsed, or rather feigned collapsing to sneak in a note to the Herald. The magister had left, telling them he would write later. Blackwall still wasn’t entirely sure who was being played here. Fiona and her mages for sure, but if they weren’t careful, so could end up Trevelyan.

That had only been the first low for them since entering the village. In the tavern and later on on their way to the chantry to follow the note’s lead, Blackwall’s image of the mage rebellion, or at least the rebels around them, had started shifting. They spoke to a few mages, and most seemed to share Fiona’s feeling of being cornered and beyond salvation. They didn’t necessarily want to go to Tevinter, some even wanted back to their Circles, but above all this wasn’t an army.

The Herald seemed to be getting more and more upset by the conversations, and the Lady Seeker’s face looked more and more like a storm cloud as the mages were getting personally reassured by the Herald of Andraste that he wanted the Circles gone. Blackwall was starting to wonder when Cassandra would lose patience.

“Given a choice between the Circle and death, most mages willingly gave up some small freedoms for safety.” That was it, the Seeker pulled Trevelyan away before the poor Revered Mother ended up ablaze. If he truly was a Herald of Andraste, something with the world had gone very, very wrong. Blackwall had rarely seen in anybody’s eyes the hatred that he saw in Trevelyan’s. The Chantry Mother had remained unperturbed.

It bothered him that he didn’t actually have a stance on the mage dilemma. The Chantry was the only one who could regulate them, but treating people the way you’d like to be treated was an idea easy enough to grasp. He caught up with the rest in a clearing overlooking Lake Calenhad.

“Did everyone with a spine die at the Conclave?” Trevelyan was hunched over the stone parapet.

“It seems we might indeed need a rebellion against Fiona, Ray.” Solas nodded at him. “Quite the unfortunate prediction.”

“Are you sure this intimidated lot is capable of pulling this off on a short notice?” Blackwall scoffed at the idea dubiously. The remains of the mage rebellion certainly didn’t seem up to the task. The mages could be getting out to Tevinter before anything like that could be organized.

“This whole business is distasteful. Perhaps we are better off pursuing the templars instead.” Cassandra’s words jolted the Herald.

“Distasteful?” If looks could kill, either the Herald or the Seeker would be dead twice over. Neither seemed to care too much at the moment, however. “Is this going next to ‘willful blindness’ and ‘harsh treatment’ when you write your history?”

“What matters now is closing the Breach! The mages are willing to ignore it.” 

“And so is nearly everybody else, without running for their lives,” he spat back at her, then turned back to the lake. “I am not seeking any bloody templars before this is resolved.”

* * *

“Trevelyan?”

The voice had the Herald spin around, and the rest of the group looked at the man who had spoken. He was a young mage with a broad face and a broad nose, his hair almost as short as his stubble. In his hands he was holding a staff, but he didn’t appear about to attack, rather he was trying to fix the head with some wire.

“Rion!” Trevelyan exclaimed, and the joy in his voice was evident behind the surprise.

“What are you doing here?” Rion nodded at the rest of them, but his eyes remained wary. “Where is your usual entourage?”

“We were at the conclave…” Both their faces fell.

“Maker… I’m sorry, Trevelyan,” he sighed. “Wait, ‘we’? You are the survivor? I heard it was a mage, but… are you it? I mean, the ‘Herald of Andraste’? Or is this some… hoax?”

Trevelyan pulled off his glove to show the mark to the other mage. “I don’t know what it is, or how I survived. And Andraste hasn’t written with directives and an explanation. I… that is, we, are with the Inquisition now. Self-assigned to the duty of closing the Breach.”

The Herald introduced them. Rion had been a mage at Ostwick, and had left to join the rebellion the previous year. Blackwall didn’t miss the questioning look he gave Trevelyan when Cassandra was introduced.

“What happened in Redcliffe, Rion? Is this the mage rebellion?”

The other mage shrugged. “I only came here after the Conclave. Most of the mages here have been staying for months, the actual rebellion scattered, not that I know exactly where. I abandoned it.” Trevelyan had a confused look on his face. “Yes, yes, I know. But the templars are an army, and we are… well, not one. There was too much bloodshed, both mages and people caught in-between. Some found a place to stay, in groups or alone. I guess it was fine, that’s partly what all this was about. I came to see whether we wouldn’t be able to get out freedom peacefully at the Conclave.”

“Didn’t seem they were going to hand it to us,” Trevelyan said dryly. “What is the deal with the mages here? I’d rather have _them_ help close the Breach. Getting the ones from Ostwick would take longer, put them in danger on the road, and leave the castle defenseless. And they might not be enough.”

“You still have the castle?”

An explanation about the mages in Ostwick followed, one that Blackwall had gotten the gist of previously, and ended with the Herald handing Rion some paper, mostly covered in a list of names.

“Maybe that would have been the right thing to do, for all of us,” Rion sighed, reading the text. “It’s… surprising. I didn’t think the mages would make it, and you I’d have expected to get shipped to Tevinter as soon as things heated up. But if you want to occupy Redcliffe Castle now, you’d be up against Tevinters, and that would be more bloodshed. Things with Redcliffe seemed to have been fine before that blighted magister took over and started chasing people from their homes.” 

“How long has Alexius been here, when did all of this happen?”

“He arrived with his people on the third day after the Conclave explosion. A few dozen of us had barely made it in past the templars. So about a week now.”

“The explosion at the Temple was a month ago,” Cassandra spoke sharply, and the way Rion looked at her, Blackwall didn’t think he believed himself lying.

“The time altering rift might be what affected time here. Maybe it’s still flowing differently. We will need to wait for night to fall and see by the stars.”

Solas’ words made only as much sense as to feel that he might be right. Mages unwinding time, Maker’s balls. He didn’t think Rion understood all of it either, although Trevelyan seemed to think that this could explain some things about Fiona.

“We will see about this,” he finally said. “In the meantime, try to keep the mages from following her. Alexius kicked out the arl, this will be bad for those involved.”

“That won’t be easy. We are already involved. Most of the leaders died at the conclave, without them Fiona is the one people will go to. There are about four hundred mages in Redcliffe, but two thirds of them are children and healers. Not like the healers at Ostwick either. We are between Tevinter and the templars, with all hope of peace gone.”

Trevelyan exhaled wearily. “A lot of the mages here seem to think that a templar attack is imminent, but at least that is not so. Whatever rogue ones there were in the Hinterlands, are dealt with. The rest are holed up somewhere, and they might be planning an attack, but it won’t be today. We have scouts, we’ll know if the templars start marching."

“I understand that your people are afraid, but you deserve better than slavery to Tevinter,” Solas said to Rion, who nodded.

“So what is your plan?” He asked cautiously. “They say there’s value in planning ahead. Perhaps we should try it for a change.”

“We get the mages to Haven and attempt to close the Breach. If we succeed, people will have some newfound appreciation for us.” If they didn’t, the Breach could swallow the world.

“And if we fail? Trevelyan, we can’t fight a war, and nobody here wants to anymore.”

“Then you won’t be happy to know that Alexius plans to toss the lot of you into Tevinter’s wars.” Rion listened alarmed to what had been said at the meeting with the magister. “Look, we are not in Tevinter. Fiona doesn’t own you to sell you. Just get however many you can to stop following her without a question.”

“We must inform Leliana. If this has become an issue between Ferelden and Tevinter, she should write to Denerim,” Cassandra said and the Herald looked at her surprised. “Leliana knows King Alistair personally,” Cassandra clarified. This Leliana was very well connected, then.

“Then let’s go see about the note at the chantry, send a bird and ride back to Haven.” Trevelyan decided. “Rion, do whatever you can. We’ll make this work.”

“I will.” He pointed at Trevelyan’s bloodied shoulder. “You need some healing before you head back?” The Herald nodded and Rion whistled sharply, gesturing for two other mages to approach. “Aina, Niallan, meet Trevelyan, he was…”

“You are the Herald!” Niallan, a mage thin as a rail, exclaimed. “Everyone in the village is already talking about you.” Word spreading so quickly was good, although Rion and his friends would have to act fast to make sure it was the right kind of word.

Trevelyan shook their hands and Rion continued. “As I was about to say, he was senior enchanter at Ostwick and the mages there are safe,” he turned to Aina, smiling. A girl of no more than sixteen, she sobbed and exclaimed in one.

“Please, my lord, do you know if a girl of fourteen, Guenevere, is safe as well? She’s my little sister, I heard they’d taken her there five years ago.” The Herald looked at Rion, who nodded slightly, the smile still on his face, then handed the paper to Aina. She found the name almost immediately and started crying for real this time, her thanks intermixed with her sister’s name and exclamations about how lovely her handwriting was.

“Alright, Aina, pull yourself together now,” Rion patted her on the shoulder.

“You can write her, I’ll make sure your message is sent together with mine next time,” Trevelyan was saying, but Rion cut in.

“We can do all the happy things once we have gotten ourselves out of the mess we are in.” He stated firmly, the other two mages looking at him questioningly. “We have a lot of work to do and I’ll explain everything, but first you two need to give Trevelyan and his friends the best healing you can.”

Niallan got to work, and Maker, was that some feeling! Blackwall didn’t have any heavy wounds, but he felt more rested than ever before. A wound on Varric’s face disappeared within seconds, although old scars remained. Sera was missing out. He wondered how people with such offensive and defensive abilities were losing their war. Then again there was more to being an army than being armed. 

Aina had insisted on healing the Herald herself. Blackwall nearly jumped when Trevelyan actually flinched as a bright light enveloped him rather than Niallan’s faintly glowing magic. Cassandra stiffened next to him, but didn’t make a move. When the light disappeared Aina started apologizing for her fumbling, but the Herald was smiling wider than he’d ever seen him do.

“I had missed that,” he sounded more optimistic all of the sudden. “Now let’s go to check on that lead and start sorting this out.”

Rion dragged Niallan and a smiling Aina away to get started on sawing dissent, and after the Herald hurriedly recited some spell, they finally headed for the chantry to investigate Felix’s note.

* * *

Whatever trap they had been expecting inside, another rift wasn’t it. A mage was dealing with the demons, mostly with the blade of his staff, maybe unable to cast any more spells. They had taken their time walking to the chantry, after all, and whoever that mage was, Blackwall felt bad for him. A well-placed swish sent the last demon disintegrating as the party approached, and the mage straightened, panting a bit.

“Good! You’re finally here!” His face was glistening with sweat. Judging by his darker complexion, he was from the north. “Now help me close this, would you?”

The chantry’s floor started gleaming with the spawns from the next wave, and Trevelyan could only nod and throw at the mage one of his lyrium potions. Then he didn’t waste a moment and ran straight away from the temporal spots to deal with the rift. Between the three mages in the fight, barriers were a lot more reliable and the rift was swiftly closed with everyone unscathed.

The mage was observing carefully, and walked around the space where the rift had been, finally turning to look at the Herald with intrigued eyes. The party was examining him in turn, now able to pay attention to the mage’s peculiar clothes, full of buckles and straps.

“Fascinating. How does that work, exactly?” They ought to be asking questions first, but the mage continued with a chuckle. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes.”

Blackwall was losing his sympathy for the mage, who was talking as if waiting for applause. He certainly wasn’t part of the mage rebellion. The clothes not turned to rags or substituted for Fereldan peasant garments would be a clear enough indication, but the lack of meekness or despair was just as good of a sign as that.

“Who are you?” The Herald finally asked, after they’d stood there observing each other for way too long.

“Ah. Getting ahead of myself again, I see. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous.” Dorian of House Pavus made something of a bow, smirking. “How do you do?”

“Another Tevinter. Be cautious with this one.” The Tevinter in question looked at Cassandra, appearing highly amused.

“Suspicious friends you have here.” With all the mages bound for Tevinter, that was hardly a surprise. “Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable - as I’m sure you can imagine.”

That wasn’t any reassurance, but Blackwall knew better than to meddle in conversations between mages. They had already figured out how time magic was involved in all this, but the peacock confirmed that Alexius was the one behind it, and of himself having helped develop it. Just wonderful. Felix arrived and if time magic hadn’t been bad enough, now there were talks about Tevinter cults, obsessed with the Herald.

When they left the chantry nobody was quite sure about just how many layers there were to the trap that was being laid out for them.

* * *

“It seems some things don’t change. The cheese this tavern serves is as awful as it was the last time I was here.” He still liked Redcliffe though. With the Archdemon ten years dead, this was one of the places where people still remembered. The Griffon statue in her honor stayed illuminated by fires night and day.

Solas hummed and continued writing some numbers. Next to him on the table were the instruments Blackwall had assembled on the quick for him. At least he was being helpful while still barely comprehending what was going on. The mage finally put down his quill.

“I am reasonably sure time is back to flowing normally in Redcliffe now. Whether it was the rifts the Herald closed, or the magister had already stopped his magic by the time we arrived.”

Solas seemed to know everything there was to know about everything. They had taken a room at the tavern, Blackwall’s role merely to protect while the elven mage watched for unusual magic and waited for the night to observe the stars. Staying mostly hidden for hours until dusk had been about as boring as one would expect it to be, and Blackwall had ended up teaching Solas to play Diamondback. The mage had quickly turned the game around and beaten him at it. At least he had given back his clothes, or Blackwall wouldn’t have been able to leave the room at all.

“What do you know of the Circles, Solas?”

“I know enough. Why?”

“Talked to that Rion fellow. I’d only heard of Kirkwall, you know. Thought I’d ask him about the one he was from, the Herald doesn’t really speak about _before_.” Blackwall shrugged. “I didn’t get much from him either. Kid just bristled at me and said it had been better than Kirkwall for being a hundred miles away from any Stannards. Not a high bar, but some seem to think they belong back there.”

“They have been locked in a tower and taught they are monsters all their lives,” Solas frowned. “Made to see monsters wherever they look. Some of them believe it of themselves, some might well have become that.”

“Well, they deserve a chance. Everyone does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, I wanted to give Blackwall some... relevant experience in Redcliffe. Rion is the Ostwick mage from the game's multiplayer.


	11. Chapter 11

_5 Harvestmere, 9:41_

“… began with an insult during the harvest ball in Ostwick over the quality of their milch cows, and escalated to a pitched battle between two hundred soldiers last week.”

Ray’s mind had wandered off during the long recitation of some negotiation at the war table. He didn’t know why they asked his opinion on how to deal with some Orlesian or Fereldan nobles. The only nobles whose dealings he was somewhat concerned with, were those who had finally finished building the watchtowers horsemaster Dennet had requested, so now the Inquisition could have horses. He’d happily left continued correspondence with the ones in Jader to Josephine.

“I’m sorry, what?” Everyone was looking at him. Josephine with a patient expression, Leliana with some amusement. At least Cassandra and Cullen had the decency to look completely clueless and bored, which was pretty much how he himself felt. “Milch cows? I don’t think we do milch cows.” He didn’t know much about his family’s sailing and trading business apart from a few big name partners, but pasture lands were mostly to the north, over the mountain. The coast and the city’s surroundings were occupied by estates, with a few fishing villages here and there.

“Those are the concerns of Lady Osher Lotharn Trevelyan Bayart,” Josephine supplied. “Distant relatives of yours are using your name, claiming ‘close friendship with the Herald of Andraste.’ I think,” she paused somewhat uncomfortably, “that they are having your identity confused with that of one of your brothers. They might not be yet aware that you are a mage.”

“I don’t remember these people,” Ray finally sighed in resignation. “It’s good that they are not expecting mages to go and… burn the other side’s cows or whatever they think mages do. Please, just write them a letter to make them shut up about cattle.”

“I will get Lady Buttlefort to deal with them as diplomatically as possible,” Josephine smiled. “What about Bann Dorner?”

“Bann Dorner has feuded with Starkhaven’s royal family before.” Leliana spoke. “If we start rumors that he intends to begin again, he will be too busy managing that affair to poison ours.”

“I am not sure how things with Starkhaven are doing,” Ray said hesitantly. “Perhaps this Lady Buttlefort could be put in contact with my mother, so they can play politics in Ostwick and keep me out of feuds with distant relatives.”

Surprisingly to him, the idea was accepted and he could go back to thinking about what to do with Redcliffe. He wished he’d gotten to talk to Fiona some more. She hadn’t been on board with the entirety of Alexius’ plan, and he wanted to know exactly what this pledge of the mages entailed. They hadn’t been let into the castle, however, and he doubted the magister would let Fiona out after the talk they’d had. What was worse, Alexius could use his time magic again, to undo whatever Rion and the others might achieve. Solas and Blackwall being trapped there was also not a small concern, although Solas at least seemed confident about keeping himself out of the magic’s range. Where that confidence came from, Ray had no idea. Solas had admitted this being the first he had seen of time magic.

“We’ve received word from a knight-recruit. The templars have gathered at Therinfal Redoubt. They must help us close the Breach. The order was founded to fight magic!”

Ray lifted his head, alarmed at the direction the conversation had taken since he’d stopped paying attention to it.

“We have garnered enough influence with Orlesian nobility to make the Lord Seeker think twice before refusing a meeting with the Herald.” He looked at Josephine crestfallen. This felt like betrayal. He had been the one to talk to some of those Orlesian nobles, and now they could be used to negotiate with templars. He didn’t even know why he was in the room any longer. The mages were at Redcliffe, Solas was at Redcliffe. Those, and his mark, were everything that was needed for closing the Breach. He had never been great at inspirational speeches, but he could go there again and simply try to sway the mages while Alexius remained in the arl’s castle.

“It is only a backup plan,” Josephine spoke again. “We must be ready to do something if we cannot gain the cooperation of the mages, and we are short on time. After being deposed, the Arl of Redcliffe rode straight to Denerim to petition the Crown.”

It didn’t matter if the templars considered him the Herald of Andraste, he had no intention of going to their fortress. At least it was so far to the east that nobody was suggesting to go there while waiting for news from Redcliffe. When Leliana mentioned “news of Redcliffe”, she nodded at him and pointedly looked at the door.

* * *

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchantress to the Imperial Court.” The tall woman had emerged from the shadows of the hallway and intercepted him on his way to Leliana.

Her clothes were so out of place in the rustic chantry. Of course, he had thought similarly of Josephine’s shimmering ruffles at first, and Sera had made fun of his own, which were simply not a shabby patchwork. He had seen some expensive looking robes as well, but hers weren’t it. She was dressed like a noble at court, with just a hint of military flair. More curves, but some angles as well, and a spectacular horned had that left him wondering about the state of Orlesian fashion. Though it wasn’t worse than the whole Tevinter ensemble of pointy bits of starched fabric sticking out everywhere.

At first their conversation made little sense to him, amidst a barrage of wolves analogues, where both mages and non-mages took turns being the wolves, depending on what Chantry propaganda she was spewing at him at that very moment. He wondered whether, in some convoluted way, that fit her earlier statement of there being no “us” and no “them”. On its own all of this wasn’t all that strange. He had heard loyalists speak. He had all too recently met mages who were scared of themselves more than of anything else. Or, earlier in his life, mages who had hated themselves to the point of suicide.

He knew of her too, of course, but not much. She had transfered from Ostwick before passing her Harrowing, so the Ostwick Circle had always been somewhat confused as to whether to count her as one of their own and be proud of her achievements.

When she mentioned Senior Enchanter Lydia, he thought for a moment that this was what Vivienne herself was, but that didn’t fit either. She had long risen above the reach of templars and he couldn’t picture her helping them for a chance at begging for mercy. She wasn’t even a Chantry apologist, happy to break the most basic of rules and provide political council to rulers. The rebel mages were ‘malcontents’ to her, and he couldn’t figure out her reasoning completely. At times it sounded like she was against it simply because it hadn’t gone well. It appeared ridiculous to judge the righteousness of a cause based on its success, but then again, according to her the entire Montsimmard Circle had been involved in the Orlesian Game. Perhaps successful really meant right to her.

Still, it appeared the main problem for her was that the structure she wanted to command, had crumbled. She had chosen to stay away from the battles, much in the way the Ostwick Circle had ultimately done. Only she wanted to rule while they wanted their freedom. She didn’t care that people had accepted and lived with mages only a few miles of where they were standing, she had her narrative prepared to recite to anyone, and by the sound of it she had been reciting it to nobles more than to mages, since plenty of it didn’t match. It was another reason he wished he could talk to Fiona now. The ones who had returned alive from the White Spire hadn’t witnessed what had happened before the vote at Andoral’s Reach, and Rion had left after the vote. Ray was pretty sure Vivienne hadn’t been First Enchanter at the time either, so the room where the cure for Tranquility had been discussed and the vote proposed, had been closed to her as well, if she’d even been in the same building.

It would be so easy to be condescending to her, perhaps even outdo her own belittling, and he had to bite his tongue and think of Josephine’s advice for nobles and the Game. Madame Vivienne had climbed through the whole mess, and he could have his fun, but she had seen worse. They both thought each other’s grasp on reality to be loose at best, but she had been the one who needed to approach him, trying to sell hers to him.

“There were no angry mobs and no gibbets, Vivienne,” he said before leaving. And the mages they might need to fight were Tevinters, who were giving people about as much choice as she herself was willing to give.

* * *

Leliana nodded for him to follow her to the back of the tent and waved a scout away.

“The templars are not a tool!” Ray snarled at her as soon as the two were alone. Leliana only raised a questioning eyebrow at the outburst, which infuriated him further. “After your incompetent Chantry lost control of its brain-addled army and flailed around like a headless chicken for a year, how can you want them back? You, that Court Enchanter, everyone! I’m not here for this, I won’t be staying here for this!”

Leliana listened calmly, at least that’s what it looked like. He couldn’t see much feeling on her face, as usual. When she chose to speak, it was to completely ignore his concerns.

“I wrote to Vivienne de Fer when the Breach appeared. We were completely lost, we needed every solution that could be offered. As things currently stand, she is a dangerous player of the Game, but her connections at court will be useful to strengthen out own influence in Orlais.”

“If you’re so damn pleased with her, why didn’t you ask for her ‘loyalist mages’ to help with the Breach in the first place? You’d rather toss me around half the country to get you influence and goodwill, only to court some templars. I already told Cassandra, I am not helping you with your templar army! I won’t be here for this reenactment of the Inquisition!”

“I didn’t ask for the loyalist mages,” Leliana looked at him, eyebrows furrowed, “because you are the Herald.”

She sank into a chair and gestured for him to take the seat opposite of hers. Ray did so almost automatically, while still trying to piece together her motivations. She did look more tired, he noticed, somewhat less cold and composed than her usual self. Hopefully that wasn’t exasperation with him, especially after their first confrontation about the Maker and His game. He wondered whether she would send someone after him once he was no longer needed and simply stood in the Inquisition’s way.

“You would have wanted the rebel mages’ standing improved, and the way things have been going, having them be the ones to help would be the most likely way of succeeding.”

True enough, she had been the one to bring up that plan, but it had been also what Solas had said was needed. It had seemed the pragmatic thing to do, not the idealistic one, and she had never asked about what he wanted.

“You support the mages?” He finally asked with uncertainty. “Why?”

“I’ve known mages. Some of them were better people than me. And yet I’m free, and they’re not. No one should be caged for what they could become. It’s not right.”

For a few seconds he could only stare at her. Why were the Divine’s Left and Right Hand of such different opinions, and what had that meant for the Divine’s own views? Justinia, in both action and appearance, had been a sitting duck, almost never venturing out of her palace in Val Royeaux while everything got progressively worse, for years.

“What were the Divine’s plans for all this? Was she actually doing anything, or are all the rumors of her involvement just the ramblings of paranoid templars?”

“She truly wanted to lessen your burden, and have your contributions acknowledged. She wanted the Chantry to treat the mages fairly.” Another one of these stretchy concepts, “fairly”. It could mean whatever the Chantry deemed it meant for mages. Like the Harrowing was fair and Tranquility was a mercy. “Although the vote for independence couldn’t take place at the White Spire, she tried to facilitate it, and sent me to help Archmage Wynne…”

“Archmage Wynne?” Ray cut in, anger seeping back into his words, and Leliana simply nodded. “That is rich, it truly is. Archmage Wynne, who dissuaded the College from voting for independence at what was probably the best time for mages, being present for the vote at what was supposedly the worst? I really don’t need to ask about what Justinia wanted, if that’s who she sent, do I?”

He could feel his eyes stinging and barely contained himself from telling Leliana exactly what he thought of her so beloved Divine. The kind of peace Justinia had wanted was at best that of going a few hundred years back and giving the Circles some of their supposed autonomy. Probably even less, judging by Vivienne’s enthusiastic speech about the Divine. 

The memories of the end of the Blight in Ferelden had become paler over the last decade, but the excitement of a mage ending it, and asking for Kinloch Hold’s autonomy were still there. When the idea had taken hold with the College of Magi in Cumberland, it had seemed that things could finally change and the last ten years of being imprisoned would truly be the last. Only for nothing to come out of it. Kinloch Hold’s own Senior Enchanter Wynne, veteran of the Blight no less, had stepped in and spoken against it, and for mages proving themselves in other ways. That had never really worked, but who cared? Healing, Qunari, Blights, mages could go ahead and prove themselves as much as they wanted, the Chantry would still take any offense to preach for them to stay locked up, and on nearly twenty occasions in history, have them decimated.

“Did we even stand a chance, or did my friends come here to die for a sham, together with everyone else that could have mattered?” 

“Justinia would’ve started the Inquisition if the Divine Conclave failed to restore peace. She hoped before that, with enough support, we could challenge the very tenets of the Chantry. But she took the Sunburst Throne after a senile woman had occupied it, and had lost all control.”

Hope. The Chantry was good at hope, for itself and for its lackeys. He wondered how much hope the Fiona who had proposed the vote in Cumberland ten years ago had lost since. Obviously enough.

“So now everything has failed…” Ray sighed. “Mother Giselle speaks of the Inquisition being needed to strike without mercy, but she never says against whom. And we are to restore order by force, but what order and what force? The mages aren’t a force now.” They were just a few hundred scared people in a village, ready to take ten years of servitude in Tevinter over fighting and risking death or a lifelong sentence instead.

“Justinia meant to hand the power to people you would have likely approved of. But they are not here now.” Leliana looked him in the eyes, this time with some clear exasperation. “I thought Josephine had been clear, but perhaps she’s not blunt enough. _We_ will make the Inquisition a force to fear. People believe in you, the Herald of Andraste.” She cocked her head to the side and her smile turned mocking. “Whatever the truth is, that belief gives you power.”

Vivienne’s words repeated verbatim, he wondered just how many of Leliana’s people had the sole job of shadowing him. The spymaster was living up to her reputation of knowing everything, an image even Cassandra thought useful even if untrue.

“She’s just here to use me, too upset that she couldn’t be the one with the mark.”

Leliana tsk-tsked. “Everyone with a lick of ambition will use you. Vivienne, the clerics in Val Royeaux, Ostwick, we will. And as word of you spreads, even people you have never heard of, in places you’ve never been to, will use you. That is not something you can avoid. What you _can_ do is be there to set the tone for the Inquisition’s interests, and I can assure you that I will protect our interests by any means necessary.”

He could only nod, stunned between trust and dread of this woman. She had casually reported at the meeting that one cleric had suffered an unfortunate end at the hands of an Inquisition agent. Ray had been fearful when Cassandra had spoken about Seekers closing in on a problem and crushing it, but Cassandra wasn’t actually doing anything other than follow him around the countryside to guard against danger, and occasionally scowl.

“Now, if you’re happy, let’s move onto Redcliffe. I have written to King Alistair, but I must admit I’m not sure of how well-received my letter will be. He is impulsive and the arl is his close relative, not to mention an even closer relative to his chief advisor. Queen Anora, who has just as much say, will take the Bannorn’s side.” She pulled out a folded note. “Rion’s efforts have been hampered as well, he suspects there are Venatori agents hiding among the mages. We want to avoid your friend getting quietly killed.”

Short of really marching into Redcliffe and going all out trying to convince the mages, their best bet was the Venatori’s supposed obsession with him. If the mages weren’t really what Alexius wanted, he wouldn’t whisk them away before getting to him. Staying in Haven could pose a danger if the magister sent something more than the promised letter, so Leliana advised him to go to Dennet instead, and get the horsemaster to hold up his end of the bargain.

* * *

“Ten silvers,” a man in peasant clothing took the money from Minaeve and dropped two books on the table next to her. Outside of the room Mother Giselle had been questioning Clemence, the Tranquil alchemist they had picked up in Redcliffe, about whether he _felt_ happy being what he was. With so many things getting on his nerves today, Ray had wanted to set her straight about just how much of anything the Tranquil could feel, but it wasn’t as if they could feel insulted either, so he had mumbled a greeting and followed her own advice of picking his battles.

He neared the table and threw a look at the books. They were nothing special, standard Circle books, but even so probably worth more than the ten silvers, if only just for the effort someone had gone though copying and binding them.

“That’s a good deal.”

Minaeve smiled wanly and put a woven coin pouch that looked all but empty back in the table’s drawer with a small sigh.

“Are you paying out of your own pocket for these books?” Whatever that money was, there didn’t seem to be enough of it. Meals and other supplies had gotten a lot better over the past few weeks, and saving books was certainly a better cause than chasing templars in his eyes. Minaeve nodded.

“Fire, war, and religion. All of them are bad for books. Knowledge gets lost forever.” She pulled out the chair and sat down to catalogue the books on a parchment that had some twenty entries further up the page.

He had meant to ask her to take care of Clemence, but ended up only promising to talk to Josephine about some funds being alloted for books. Then he proceeded down the corridor to the ambassador’s office, knocked on the door and entered. Josephine was at her desk, writing, as usual. She gave him a cautious smile, and he smiled back. She had a calming effect on most people, it seemed, and she rarely raised her voice. After Leliana’s revelatory chat, he hoped the two of them were close enough friends for Josephine to remain on the same side. It had appeared she had picked it for utilitarian reasons at the time, now he wasn’t so sure of that anymore.

The issue with book money was settled far too quickly, which left him getting to the main point almost immediately.

“I spoke to Leliana,” he began, not quite sure about how to continue. “And to Vivienne.”

“Ah, we’ve met a few times before, at court. She remains a truly accomplished player of the Game. So long as her interests align with yours, Madame Vivienne will be a most valuable ally. Just _do_ keep her on your good side, Ray.”

He chuckled, and the smile Josephine gave him was even more cautious than the first one.

“I’m quite sure there’s no way that will happen. Already took care of getting on her bad side, and there’s certainly no way our interests will align too closely.”

“Then my advice would be not to converse with her too much. Everything can be turned into a weapon in the Game.” Josephine sighed without putting much feeling behind it. She wasn’t stupid, and there must have been talks between her and Leliana about where the whole thing was going.

“About what you said before, me staying with the Inquisition. I will do it.”

A small smile tugged at the corners at her mouth, and that was it. No grand contracts, pledges and seals. Nothing to unnerve anyone at all, but also nothing to lean on, should things turn sour.

* * *

Clemence followed him across the village with the usual blind and hollow obedience the Tranquil possessed. Still, he had been smart enough to ask to join and get away from Redcliffe before he was thrown out. Ray wondered just how much instinct for self-preservation remained in them to lead to a lucky cross with logical thought. Maybe it was because Clemence believed himself more useful than a regular servant. He looked at the man again, and noticed the shivers. True enough, his clothes had been shabby even for Redcliffe, and although there was currently no wind, the crisp cold air in Haven was probably that of real Fereldan winter while the valleys still enjoyed mid-autumn.

“You’re cold, let’s go to the quartermaster first.”

“The temperature here is not dangerously low, but the numbness in my fingers won’t allow me to start alchemical work immediately.”

Right, no immediate danger. He was also probably not immediately starving. Maybe he should have left him with Minaeve. They went to Threnn first, to grab some warmer clothes, but food would have to wait. Adan would probably be irritated enough at a Tranquil working with him, crumbs on top of that might just be the last straw. The alchemist was already crankier than normal, ever since Mother Giselle had assumed control over the whole taking care of people thing. She did it well, but her demands for potions were pretty harsh.

“It’s you, again. Look, the plants are nice and all, we’re not lacking for supplies. But keep that hoyden of yours out of here! I’ve got no time for her whims.”

“Sera?” Ray grinned. “Isn’t she a kindred spirit? You know, less healing, more dangerous mixtures?”

“She messed up the flasks! The river is frozen solid, you want to go dredge up some sand yourself?” He’d have to go see what Sera had wanted with Adan’s flasks. She had been rather elusive ever since she had left them in front of Redcliffe.

Much to his relief Adan wasn’t bothered at all by Clemence, a bit joyful even, if such a thing was possible. He hadn’t had a skilled worker in Haven, and, well, a skilled Tranquil was as useful as any worker could ever be.

“Poor soul. Could have been me, in less fortunate times.” Ray startled at the unexpected revelation.

“You’re a mage?” Nobody had mentioned that to him. Alchemists were often mages, with the Circles nurturing the craft and trade, and spells of all sorts being useful, but there were quite a few who made do without.

“Just enough to light a candle and turn the pages of a book. Lucked out when the king needed alchemists, I was just skilled and safe enough to be let go be someone else’s problem.”

Valissa had been skilled enough. Maybe not human enough, or nobody had needed her outside of the Circle. Safely learn to master one’s talents, he thought bitterly at Vivienne words before chasing the memory away.

Once he was out, he looked at the closed door of Solas’ cabin. He’d missed their talks on the way back to Haven, and there were things he didn’t understand. He was almost down to one discernible landscape in his dreams, fewer and fewer images overlapped. Yet there was barely, if any, trace of himself in them. Were all the spirits so enamored with this place and its history to ignore all his thoughts and memories completely? He had dreamed of the tunnels under Haven, of the cult of Andraste, of the Hero of Ferelden. It had been hard to tell which of the images were from what he had read, or of the reveals the Inquisition had made since, but some were neither. Much of it had been thrilling, like Solas had described his dreams in the middle of ancient ruins, and much was chilling, when it was blood rituals in the scattered remains of buildings around the Hinterlands. He just wasn’t used to going… unacknowledged in his own dreams. Even demons barely made any sense with their temptations, doing worse than their usual simplicity.

* * *

Sera was sitting at the doorstep to his cabin, looking sullen.

“Had to go to your mages and all.” She pulled out a flask from a bag and Ray saw it was covered in miniature holes. “Can’t even get a decent shape, frigging magic serving like shit.”

“Is that for your bees?” He took the flask from her and looked at it closely. They had probably used some ice spikes to get the holes in, but the cold had clearly messed up with the rest of the process. “You’re just going to smash them, does it matter? Looks good to me.”

Sera just scoffed and snatched back the flask. So there were no bees either, not that Haven would have been the place for them. Aside from Adan, Sera had gotten into some trouble with Josephine as well, and now there was a silent war of favors, it seemed. One that wasn’t going well for Sera as far as procuring bees from somewhere went. He had to hand it to Josephine, _that_ must have been a weird order catalogue. With no love to spare for Haven currently, Sera was at least up for going down to the farms.

Now only the Iron Bull remained. They had talked some, but it had been mostly needling about the Qun just to annoy him. Of course, Cassandra also remained, but he didn’t think talking to her would be necessary, she’d do her protecting regardless. At least until the Breach was closed.

Ray walked out of the village and towards the Chargers’ tents. Dalish gave him a cheeky grin and he grinned back. She didn’t really need to keep up the facade these days, it wasn’t as if apostates were uncommon. Still, Krem had maintained a straight face telling him they didn’t have any in their group. Ray would have liked to have seen her in action, curious about how a curved shape affected a staff. He had never heard of such a thing before, but he only had as much information on Dalish practices as Elonna had had.

“Hey, Boss. Cleaned up some of that labyrinth under the village. Hammered a few corridors shut, once we made sure they were empty.” The Chargers had been put to the task to sort out the mess under Haven once a villager had wandered into a corridor and barely escaped with his life, demons on his tail. Still no possessed nugs though. Solas had a rather disturbing theory of the demons being more or less driven insane by the Breach and the rifts, and not aware enough to know where they were, let alone wanting to possess anything to stay here. “Ready anytime, if you need me for something.”

Ray cursed internally. He _could_ read people. And while that was what he needed right now, he wasn’t happy about a Qunari walking around, figuring him out.

“You said you fought Tevinter mages,” he said quickly. “Can you tell one apart in a crowd?”

“Casting or just walking around?”

“Hopefully not casting.” He didn’t want for Redcliffe to be remembered as a place where things went wrong with mages, no more than people already thought it.

“Probably,” Bull shrugged. “The way they walk, or tie a knot on their belt. Figured the Tevinters weren’t going to stay hidden for long, we attacking?”

Ray sighed. He’d himself overheard some scouts about Therinfal Redoubt. The so-called War Room needed a thicker door, and people needed less righteous enthusiasm about the whole Inquisition, or there wouldn’t be a secret left in this place.

“No. Not yet, at least. But we are going to go to the farms to arrange for some horses, and be closer in case we have to rush matters.”

He returned to his cabin and penned the drafts of a couple of letters to Ostwick. Not even Cassandra could argue with making alliances there. A servant came carrying food, and Ray enjoyed floating a few chunks of meat to Baron Plucky. The raven had been surprisingly comfortable around magic, and judging by the rune stone he had stolen from wherever, was not just after shiny objects. Maybe he was spying for Leliana as well, and Ray really wished he knew more about who he was putting his trust into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _really_ don't like missing companions with a finite number of them, so for both being a loyalist and never bringing any mages to the table, Vivienne gets a headcanonned recruitment.


	12. Chapter 12

The Iron Bull had enjoyed the work at the Storm Coast, even if at the time he hadn’t been quite sure what the heads in Par Vollen had been thinking assigning him to watching the Inquisition. Yes, he was good. Still, the purported Herald of Andraste was a mage from Ostwick, which was one of the least likely combinations of traits for a person who’d let a Qunari close. Fittingly, his people hadn’t been able to come up with enough information on the Herald either. There were few of them in Ostwick, and they had hit a wall at every turn, because they had also started work after the Inquisition had apparently been through there already. All Bull had gotten had been a few general notes on the Trevelyans and a more expansive, but also extremely general, report on the structures and relationships in southern magi Circles.

Still, the Inquisition had come, and they had hired the Chargers. The mage had acted accordingly to Bull’s expectations during their meeting, with wariness, suspicion and the carefully kept distance of two steps to the side. Yet they had been recruited almost immediately, and Bull couldn’t be sure whether it had been a decision made on the spot, or an already settled matter. He’d bet on the latter after his talk with Red. The Herald had put up some face that was probably meant to be dispassionate, but there had been plenty of disdain on it when he had neared the battlefield. It could have been because he disliked looking at carnage, or because he’d hoped for the Chargers to lose, or at least for Bull to die in the process.

Bull had revealed himself as a spy almost right away. If he ever ended up winning some trust with Trevelyan, all would be lost the moment someone got tipped off. He also didn’t want to involve the Chargers in such a volatile affair, they might end up being the ones caught up in the wrath. He had offered his own services as a personal bodyguard as well, which the mage probably found funny on some level, because at the end of the recruitment he’d threatened him with his other bodyguard, the Seeker. The “eat you alive” phrasing hadn’t left her happy, but she had remained silent. Tough competition for that spot.

* * *

For something set up within a fortnight the Inquisition was decent enough, and it had a tavern with people willing enough to chat, even if not always with Bull. The leaders were a tougher case. There was no getting close to Leliana. He couldn’t give up his shirtless tavern-loving persona for Josephine, much the pity, since she seemed close with both Leliana and Trevelyan. Cullen he could easily get close to with just the right words, probably even if the Qunari in Kirkwall still haunted his dreams. But that would mean watching a lot of not so capable soldiers getting basic training. A day’s worth of observation had made it clear that it would also mean alienating Trevelyan, and Bull was already almost as alienated from him as he had expected.

It wasn’t visceral hate, so there was hope. The show of “I can always kill you” had been there, but he was alive. Bull put it down to more pressing opposition, such as almost the entirety of the Andrastian Chantry and some of the Inquisition leaders themselves. The presence of a Ben-Hassrath could well be above irritating for the Herald, but it wasn’t like the man was in the most favorable position himself. Locally, most common people - even Chantry Sisters, were supportive of the Inquisition and the Herald. To most others, far away and entrenched in Chantry teachings for almost a thousand years, the Inquisition was a heretical cult, and their Herald being a mage wasn’t something that could be easily accepted. Bull would hate to have Josephine’s job of fostering alliances and appeasing nobles.

Ultimately he came to the conclusion that his first hunch had been correct, and the Herald would be the one to try to get close to, with a backup plan of Cassandra. It was too bad the two had only spent a day in Haven between missions. Trevelyan had come to prod him on various Qun matters, this time actually keeping a dispassionate expression. When it would go away, it was only to be replaced with a frown and a declaration that whatever the current line of questioning was about, was deplorable under the Qun. Bull had indulged him, certainly not having expected any different. The tenacity to keep digging and jabbing would have been rather endearing had Trevelyan been twelve. The one thing he wouldn’t ask about had been mages under the Qun. Bull supposed the he didn’t want a re-imagining of whatever beliefs he held about those.

He also enjoyed flaunting being a mage. There were a few others, and none of them kept their staves in the village, whereas Trevelyan couldn’t be seen without one sticking above his head. It was mildly distracting when talking to him, because the staff did have a very nice dragon on top, at Bull’s eye level. The mage would be a nice challenge. At least easy on the eyes. Maybe that had played into the image when they’d met. Blue-grey eyes, blue-grey sky, blue-grey sea, all of them stormy, it had worked out well. He’d have to see whether this Herald could keep up the intensity without the backdrop. 

* * *

_6 Harvestmere, 9:41_

Of course he had heard of the horse and what it was. He’d also seen it from afar, but up close it was too real and too unsettling. 

“What would the Qun do with my horse, Bull? It is very possessed and very, very useful. It doesn’t need rest, it’s not afraid of anything, and I can command it with a thought.” As intriguing and useful as that sounded, Bull didn’t doubt the Qun would have the horse burned and the ashes buried in the ground, where they would hopefully stay. Together with those of its rider.

“They would put you on it, and let you loose in a battle nobody else wants to fight.”

“Huh, nothing new then.”

With the completion of the watchtowers Dennet’s assistant had requested, they were on their way to ask the horsemaster to keep his end of the bargain, and to bide their time lurking around. Luckily Bull had his own horse, or he would have broken the back of whatever poor farmstead animal the Inquisition was ready to supply him with. They weren’t in a real hurry, so they were slowly descending down the mountain in silence. Sera was occupied with mixing and shaking some concoctions with surprising dexterity, nimbly slipping the vials into the leather hoops of her belt. Trevelyan was reading through a few papers a scout had handed him right before they had ridden off, and by the expression on his face, Bull concluded it was a letter from a friend.

He was busy enough observing and making up strategies, so the silence didn’t bother him, but Cassandra seemed to have a harder time with it, after the better part of an hour. Alternatively, she was trying to patch things up with the Herald, and get to the positive side of their relationship of grudging cooperation. So when Trevelyan finished with the letter and slipped it to the bottom of the stack, she steered her horse a bit closer to his.

“Good news?”

“It was from my younger sister, she wants to come to Haven. Of course my parents resolutely forbade it.” In a surprising twist of seemingly pursuing much the same thing as the Seeker, Trevelyan continued unbidden, “Do you have any siblings?”

“ _Dead_ ”, Bull thought by how the Seeker stiffened and her face grew darker for just a moment. She did deflect onto her family however, and that proved relevant for a while, because she had been raised by a death mage. Had Cassandra’s take on her uncle been positive, Trevelyan would have maybe focused on that and asked more about him, but as it was, he picked the war path instead.

“There was a child born at the castle a few months into the rebellion. The last Sister who had stayed until then insisted on taking her to the Chantry, and when we refused, she took herself there and tried to stir as much trouble for us as she could.” Trevelyan smirked at Cassandra’s frown. “Good to know Nevarra has a place for royal priest mages raising children.”

“Raising children badly. My uncle treated me like a porcelain doll, to be placed on a shelf and dusted only when necessary. What little I saw of my homeland was through the bars of a gilded cage.”

“I’m sorry about your parents,” Trevelyan said after a few moments, the polite sympathy petering out at the end into a monotonous drawl. “Would you have preferred to be placed in a Circle to be treated like a monster?”

“Must you do this every time we talk?”

“No, I just want to.”

“Fine,” Cassandra sighed. “Get if off your chest then.”

“I don’t know nearly as many good insults as Sera does to do it justice.”

“Wha-?” The elf’s head snapped up. “Ooh, yeah! I won three out of three!” She stuck the vial she was holding in her belt and dropped the box with ingredients into the saddlebags. “Not taking sides when they are both scary, just so you know.”

Smart girl, this Sera. Bull wasn’t about to get involved in talks about southern magi politics. He wasn’t a fan of mages running around the place, but it had been the south’s stupid system that couldn’t pick itself up after falling. The saarebas had it worse than mages anywhere, but they knew their place and stayed in it, with enough respect from others for accepting their role. The report on southern Circles had given him a headache with all its cliques, fraternities, rivalries and ranks, and that had been before he had gotten to the templars.

Trevelyan had gone back to reading, and Bull wasn’t exactly sure what the point of antagonizing the Seeker had been, if there had been a point to it at all. Maybe it was just someone templar-like enough to say whatever to, without fearing repercussions.

“So, is the horse something one of those death mages did?” He had to concede that Trevelyan’s horse monstrosity kept gait and behaved well, seemingly without being steered. Of course all the demon’s finer horse qualities were offset by how much of a terrible rider the mage was, going between slouching and tensing like mad half the time. He had even sat side-saddle for a while.

“Doesn’t look like it, but we don’t know that much about it.”

“And you are fine with it reading your mind?”

“You read people too, don’t you?” Trevelyan shrugged and stuffed the papers away.

“Hey,” Bull balked. He’d gotten his fair amount of insults in the south, but a mage calling him a demon was a bit much. “I told you how this stuff works, it’s not some Fade crap!”

“No, in fact, it’s quite the opposite. You take in a few things and read a lot from them. A demon might see everything, and understand very little. So yes, I am fine with Equinor. It is also not whispering anything in my head.”

“Named it Equinor, huh?” Trevelyan must have not been around too many horses in his life. The demon explanation was probably as comforting as it could ever get, if it was true. And accompanied by a compliment? Acknowledgment? He’d have to learn to live with it one way or another.

“Better than ‘Bog Unicorn’.”

Bull thought bog unicorn a lot more fitting for the beast.

* * *

On the Imperial Highway the horses went into gallop, and so did Trevelyan’s, with the man himself turning slightly paler and laying low, clutching at the blasted horse’s neck. Luckily for him the ride to the farms was short, and once they hit farmland, the horses slowed down. Trevelyan assumed his semi-awful riding stance and they made their way to Dennet’s house.

“What in the Maker’s name is that?” The horsemaster’s first words only served to prove to Bull that Trevelyan’s creature didn’t entirely qualify as a horse even to a man whose job were horses.

“My mount,” Trevelyan looked at the bog unicorn like it was his firstborn. “You can say it’s a fade-touched horse!” Dennet wasn’t showing any sign of comprehension and Trevelyan sighed. “It has a spirit in it.”

“A demon,” helpfully supplied Cassandra in an icy voice. The contents and the delivery of the line had Dennet stepping back slightly, the hairs on his forearms standing up.

“It’s not dangerous, it just runs,” the mage huffed. To its credit the bog unicorn wasn’t displaying dangerous behavior, since it had stood like frozen for the entirety of their conversation. Finally Dennet made back the steps he had retreated and paid a closer look to the horse. The corpse of the horse.

“It’s an Orlesian charger, excellent breed. This one is… was a particularly good specimen, look at those legs. Likely a chevalier’s steed.” Dennet still kept a respectable distance from the unicorn. “That sword through its head though… who put it there?”

“Probably its former master. Though word is he was a marauder.”

“Same thing. The blade is rusted. Wouldn’t it be better to pull it out? Less unnerving.”

“It wouldn’t be much of an unicorn if I did that! Besides, it might be necessary for the spirit to stay.” Trevelyan shrugged. “All the other horses are perfectly sword-free, isn’t that enough?”

“Must be a mage thing,” Dennet murmured.

Cassandra remained with the horsemaster to arrange for the moving of the horses, and Sera ran off somewhere to meet a contact. Trevelyan took to wandering around the farms and Bull decided to follow, if only to witness the other inhabitants’ reaction to Equinor. He was a little disappointed when most simply avoided looking at it. When they came upon Dennet’s daughter at the stables, she invited them to do some horse racing, and Bull decided it was time to act.

“Come on, Boss, time to learn to ride a horse properly.” To Trevelyan’s credit, he actually looked keen on the idea. That is, until Bull threatened to take from him his beloved demon. “Get a normal horse, and I bet in a few hours you will be looking great on it.”

“No.” Bull could hear the pout, although the mage’s face had simply gone back to looking disinterested.

“Don’t want to honor the fine animals the Inquisition people will ride?”

“Others will do the honoring. I have my horse.”

Bull grunted in exasperation. “You can’t learn how to ride on your horse, it has no reactions. You should know how to ride any horse. What if yours dies? Again.”

“We’ll put the spirit into another one.” He did sound vaguely hesitant about that possibility, however, and Bull pressed further.

“Well, look at it this way, its previous master likely was an excellent rider. A good horse loves a good rider, so you can do it the favor.” Seeing that the creature had endured whatever nonsense Trevelyan had been putting it through, he had his doubts it really cared one bit. But apparently it was enough of an argument to make the Herald relent.

They had to pick a horse that wouldn’t object to the casting of a barrier, as Trevelyan simply refused to let anything happen without that. They were lucky on their first try, but Bull had to carefully keep the horse in place while Trevelyan cast his spell. It turned out to be pretty prudent after all, when the horse threw him not twenty minutes into the lesson. Cassandra found them soon, telling Trevelyan that Dennet had agreed to join the Inquisition at Haven as horsemaster. Bull could bet the unicorn would keep its own stable, untouched by other horses, and certainly untouched by Dennet.

Trevelyan wasn’t so bad at picking up the correct posture, and after some two hours, they attempted gallop, although it took him another quarter of an hour to stop falling forwards and clinging to the horse.

“I hurt everywhere,” the mage complained when they sat down for a break. Sera had reappeared, bringing some chocolates in a package addressed to an Orlesian noble. Cassandra cast a disapproving look at her, but Trevelyan just grinned and crammed one in his mouth, together with the salted meat he was chewing on. Bull didn’t want to risk that sort of assault on his taste buds, so he left his own portion of the meat aside and got started on the chocolates. They were gone in a matter of seconds, and Cassandra looked vaguely annoyed at being left without any, but didn’t say a word.

“We will do the races next, Boss. Will feel good to put that training to some measurable task.” That got him a glare from Trevelyan.

“I’m not used to all that riding! I will be walking funny for days after today.”

Sera broke into a mad cackle. “Like those Sisters at Haven, right, Bull?”

“Hey, everyone wants to ride the bull,” Bull smiled indulgently. His reputation in Haven was growing. As far as he knew, the Herald had no reputation of the sort at all. There were rumors, of course, but nothing seemed based on evidence, not even the ones about the lovely ambassador.

The rest of the meal was largely occupied with bickering with Sera about the Qun. Bull wasn’t a priest, so he didn’t even pretend to grasp the deeper teachings, but Sera didn’t seem to possess the same level of self-awareness and stumbled around trying to figure out Andrastianism on the fly. Bull decided that a change of topic was needed.

“So, you’re a spy, Sera? For the ‘little people’.”

“People tell me stuff,” the elf shrugged. The Red Jenny network had proven a hard one to investigate in depth, with its members being very decentralized and loosely allied. Perhaps there wasn’t much depth to it, in favor of breadth.

“Lots of spy networks with the Inquisition now. Over-represented with just Josephine on diplomacy, and Cassandra and Cullen on the forces.”

Cassandra interrupted. “I am not representing the Inquisition forces. I am just doing what has to be done.”

“How Qunari of you,” Trevelyan drawled, completely ignoring the stink eye that earned him. Cassandra made a disgusted noise and declared that she was going to walk off her meal.

* * *

Trevelyan did walk funny by the time dusk fell. In addition to the riding they had found a rift hidden in the small grove near the race track. Bull hadn’t been worried at first when there was no sign of the man at the track’s end. He had insisted on riding his demon unicorn for the last challenge, and distressing imagery aside, should have been perfectly fine. In the end though Bull had run looking for him, and had himself wandered into the host of demons. The Herald had been safe, still on horseback, but obviously his strategy thus far had been to snipe and ride away, rinse and repeat. Once Bull had been thrown into the mix, the rift had gotten sealed pretty quickly. 

He had declined the offer to have some superficial wounds healed and the two had made it back to the farms to deliver the news about another rift closed. Dennet had first yelled at his daughter to watch where she was riding, then hugged her, muttering to himself. At least he hadn’t changed his mind about leaving for Haven. The party could have stayed with the farmers for the night or at the nearby camp, but the mage wanted to check if the lake to the south had sand suitable for glass.

The lake camp was well stocked - or more likely it was well stocked for the Herald and his people. Bull doubted scouts handed out wine just like that to every destitute soul who happened to wander by. In addition to the wine there was roasted meat, fairly freshly baked bread, and even some fruit. Trevelyan had mellowed out after the long day, apparently feeling no need to exert energy to annoy either him or Cassandra. Even the weather seemed agreeable despite the slight chill. The sky was clear, the moons bright, and the wind only strong enough to lightly sway the grass. The Hinterlands seemed like a really good place for living and farming, massive snow mountain close by notwithstanding. Bull and Sera polished the bottle of wine, Cassandra polished her armor and cleaned her sword, and the Herald didn’t surprise anyone by throwing a blanket around himself and ignoring everyone in favor of a book. When he finally closed it shut an hour later and dragged his feet to his tent, Bull thought that would be bedtime for the mage. It was really impractical how he had a tent almost twice as large as anybody else’s. Bull had to turn his horns sideways and bend halfway down to make it into the one that was his.

Trevelyan emerged again though, without his coat and vest, and with the blanket still thrown over his shoulders. With staff in one hand, and a towel, soap and some clothes in the other, he announced that he was going to bathe. Cassandra threw him a worried look, but probably decided that the area was safe enough and simply nodded.

“There was a waterfall a bit to the west, Boss, want to go there?” Bull wouldn’t say no to a good scrub down.

“I think my body has been through quite enough today without me subjecting it to a freezing waterfall on top of that.” And he vanished down the ridge and towards the lake with a grumble. The rest of them settled into an uneasy silence, as if waiting to hear cries for help any moment now. Not fifteen minutes into this Sera jumped up.

“Gonna wash too,” the elf hopped to where the luggage and horses were and started looking for her clothes.

“Perhaps we should give the Herald his privacy,” Cassandra suggested, to which Sera scoffed.

“Not interested in his _thing_.”

“This is not about… ugh,” the retort failed to reach the elf, who’d already ran off. “It’s like herding cats, I swear.”

“Oh, come on, Seeker, let them frolic a bit.” Cassandra looked at him skeptically. “He did good work today, gained a good bit of support for your Inquisition.”

“The Inquisition is not _mine_ , Qunari,” the Seeker sighed. “Though I must admit, he can be likable. If you don’t happen to be subjected to the moodiness and defiance on a permanent basis. I suppose I have you to thank for tiring him out today.”

“He’s just always on an edge, most of you are. Just follow my example and loosen up a bit.” Bull wondered if one of the scouts would be up for a tumble when everyone had gone to bed. He at least knew how to relax. Cassandra caught his meaning quickly enough for someone who appeared so proper.

“That at least is something he has given us no reason to worry about, and it would be better if it stayed that way.” Bull stood up and looked towards the lake. Time to enjoy himself, he thought, and went to fetch a towel of his own. Cassandra shook her head, and directed her eyes back at the camp fire.

* * *

Bull hurried towards the lake, and stopped in his tracks once he got a sight of it. Not far from the shore something like a three feet wide circular chimney was standing the the water. It glittered and gleamed in the moonlight, so it was likely made of ice. Steam rose over it. Was that how mages bathed in lakes around these parts? If its height was meant to provide privacy, it was failing really spectacularly, since Sera was hanging from the top, elbows around the edge and head firmly into presumably Trevelyan’s personal space. Bull couldn’t make out what she was saying, but the sound of her chatter could still reach him. He was only steps away from the water when Sera yelped, thrown into the air, and then into the water.

“Arse!” She yelled once she stood up again. The water was quite shallow. Bull picked up the towel that was next to Trevelyan’s clothes and waded in.

“Hey, Boss.”

“Not you too!” Trevelyan’s annoyed voice came. “The ice is not going to hold your weight.”

“I’m just bringing you this,” Bull tossed the towel over the edge of the ice tower. It was snagged right away, though if there had been a word of gratitude from the Herald, it didn’t reach Bull’s ears. Seconds later the ice started cracking until it crumbled into small pieces around Trevelyan, him standing there with his staff in hand and the towel around his waist, somewhat flushed. Sera must have gotten an eyeful, maybe of more than bathing. Bull took in what remained visible of the view. Trevelyan’s skin was pale in the moonlight, and although his overall build was far from a fighter’s, for a mage the man had some good definition, as well as a nice pair of broad shoulders. Must be all that staff swinging. Bull couldn’t remember having ever seen a man without a single scar.

He briefly considered the likelihood of taking the edge off Trevelyan himself, and getting really close at the same time, but threw out the idea almost immediately. Trevelyan’s blood would probably turn to ice at the thought. The moment of appreciation was interrupted by a disgruntled Sera, who managed to splash a surprising amount of water at the mage. Only a second later she was repaid in kind with a slight gesture from Trevelyan that had a torrent pour out of nowhere over the already soaked elf. Sera spluttered and yelled something about fighting dirty, and Bull thought the frolicking was about to commence. Trevelyan, however, started walking towards the shore.

“Boss,” Bull stopped him. “Think you can make one of those for me too? Not so high though, better to see if someone approaches.”

“Go soak under a waterfall, Bull!” Sera made something like an attempt to push him aside and turned to the mage. “You frigging promised, and you magicked me, now you make me a bath!”

Trevelyan looked at Sera, then at Bull. “Let me get this straight. You people, who don’t like magic at all, would now like a magically constructed and heated bathtub?” Bull just shrugged. Whatever the Qun had to say, Trevelyan was enough in control of his magic. Sera muttered “arse” again, but didn’t appear to be dissuaded in the slightest. In the end they both got something more like a normal bathtub each, a respectable distance one from another. Sera enjoyed wading a hand through hers, asking Trevelyan to adjust the temperature over and over again. Once she was happy with the water, she stripped without any modesty, there and then. At least she was being consistent after having completely ignored Trevelyan’s privacy. The man himself didn’t seem to be quite as unaffected as her, and promptly looked to the side, blushing. Interesting that nobody in Haven had managed to get his attention in such a way. While people hadn’t stripped for him in public yet, the understanding that they would be quite happy to do so in private had been made clear by many, only to be ignored.

Bull walked with him to the shore to get undressed, and did so quite demonstratively, taking his enjoyment in making someone’s holy figure avert his eyes once more, albeit with less than a blush and more of a frown. He did take a deliberately slow walk back into the lake though, giving Trevelyan time to get dressed. When he lowered himself into the water and looked back, he found out that was just what the mage had done. The leather boots were the only thing left from his usual attire, the rest of the heavy clothes gone in favor of some linen trousers and a loose shirt. He puttered around the shore for a few more moments, then nodded towards the lake and started walking in the direction of the camp.

“You and elves…” Sera spoke, astonished. “How does that even _work_?”

Bull started rubbing the bar of soap around his torso. “You get along with him, Sera. For one so afraid of magic.”

“He’s not scary,” Sera shrugged. “Can be weird, yeah? Stuck up sometimes. Still a whole lot nicer than Solas.” Bull wasn’t going to argue there. He’d met the elven mage only briefly, but for long enough to have the Qun debated over once again. Solas had the kind of condescending aura Trevelyan couldn’t hope to achieve with all his tirades and badgering. 

“He is nice to normal people,” Sera’s voice reached him. “Varric says it’s because he’s lost his friends.” Gone up in the explosion, likely. Bull knew Trevelyan talked to quite a few in Haven, not just the mages, but mostly to the populace the Herald was about as impersonal and lonesome a figure as a holy icon was supposed to be. That could explain him taking to Sera, or to Josephine for that matter. People who’d treat him like a person, and notably weren’t working with the Chantry, templars, or the Qun.

“Well, things have been hard on everyone. Might get harder, if we are to go meet those mages soon and get to the task of closing the Breach.”

“I’m not touching that village.”

The ice around him had started to cool the water and Bull stepped out. Looking down at the magical bathtub, he thought again of the southern mages. People riding demon horses and using spells for a bath hadn’t been broken by their Circles, and good luck keeping them contained now that they were out of their prisons. This was going to be trouble.

“You going back yet, Sera?”

“Gonna swim some.”

Bull walked to the camp fire, to find only Cassandra there, just as he had left her.

“Frolicking done with?” The Seeker’s lips curved. She nodded towards the Herald’s tent. “He seemed in a good mood, wished me a good night, even.

He didn’t envy Cassandra with a charge like Trevelyan. Still, she was doing fine, and Bull didn’t think she’d have the nerves to get rid of the mage once his job was done. She practically radiated faith and righteousness. Bull didn’t want to disappoint her with his take on the situation, so he contented himself with wishing her good night as well.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for skipping a week, some real life had to be dealt with. Next chapter should be right on time since it's mostly done already.

_8 Harvestmere, 9:41_

Alexius had sent his invitation at last, and it was an obvious trap they couldn’t avoid. Convincing enough mages to leave Redcliffe wouldn’t be difficult at this point, but if the magister didn’t care about them, his people would be able to incite a battle that would claim too many. The Venatori couldn’t take the mages, but they still held them effectively hostage.

“We don’t have the manpower to take the castle! Either we find another way in, or give up this nonsense and go get the templars!” Cullen certainly made no secret where his sympathies lay. “If you go in there, you’ll die. And we’ll lose the only means we have of closing these rifts. I won’t allow it.”

“We are not in the Circle and I’m not asking for your permission,” Ray snapped at him. “I would rather deal with Alexius than with a host of templars. It’s me walking into an enemy fortress either way.”

The biggest problem was that he didn’t know what Alexius wanted with him, or with the Breach for that matter. Did he want him alone so that he could kill him more easily, or to discuss something he didn’t want the others hearing? If the Venatori were behind the ritual witnessed at the temple, they could want him for a continuation, or they could want him dead just so that the rifts and the Breach remained, for whatever purpose that would serve them. 

Cassandra agreed that they should concern themselves with the mages, just because it was Ferelden’s strongest fortress being held by a magister. Not that they had the means to assault the castle anyway, but Josephine also pointed out that the Inquisition was still regarded as an Orlesian organization. Ray sometimes forgot just how close to the Chantry they were considered, even with both sides’ resolute denial.

The door to the war room creaked open to admit Leliana, followed by two of her scouts, or rather assassins. Having Leliana’s support remained unnerving, but it was better than having to strike a deal with a Tevinter cult. Or at least it cut off that course of action completely. He wouldn’t be going into the castle alone, despite what Alexius demanded. Still, Cassandra’s powers couldn’t hold off more than three or four mages, and even then it would put her in a purely defensive position.

The two scouts moved to the sides to reveal Dorian Pavus standing there, with two more behind him. The mage stepped forth and the doors closed with Leliana’s people retreating. Ray barely kept back a chuckle, given the graveness of their current situation, when he saw what the Tevinter mage was wearing. Dorian had lost his shimmery cloak, and perhaps the last thing Ray had expected from anyone walking through Haven was a bared shoulder. He was getting cold just looking at it. Maybe he hadn’t hidden his amusement well enough, however, since Dorian cast at him a pointed look, somewhere between inquiring and judging.

“There is a secret passage into the castle, an escape route for the family. It’s too narrow for our troops, but we can send agents through.” Leliana spoke.

Ray sighed with relief. There was their way in, and of course it would be the spymaster to know of it. He had thought of a waterway, a sewer, just like the underground passages the castle in Ostwick had, but Redcliffe castle was on a lake, didn’t look dwarven or Tevinter, and it was old. It might not even have those. A dozen agents and Dorian would disarm guards and magic while Ray, Cassandra and Solas played the bait distracting Alexius. Hopefully any battle resulting from that would end up contained enough. Cullen reminded him that templars were still an option, and there might have even been a suppressed collective sigh from the rest, but in the end it was agreed on half of Bull’s people heading to Therinfal Redoubt to at least observe what the templars were up to, from a safe enough distance.

* * *

In the clearing in front of the chantry Leliana left for her quarters, nodding at Ray and leaving Dorian with a markedly warning glare. The Tevinter mage would need to leave soon with her people to get to where Old Redcliffe had stood before the Blight, and where the windmill with the entrance to the passage still was. Hopefully without getting stabbed in the process. The rest of them didn’t have to be particularly sneaky on the Imperial Highway.

“It occurs to me you are a mage,” Dorian spoke first just as Ray was wondering whether to strike a conversation by asking how he wasn’t freezing. It didn’t seem particularly refined, but then again starting by telling him they might need to kill his former mentor didn’t hold much appeal either.

“That _just_ occurred to you?”

“I meant… you must have been part of the Circle of Magi. In the South. Meaning you were locked away like a criminal, at least until you rebelled.” Dorian’s tone was pleasantly inquiring, as if waiting for confirmation of his incredulous powers of deduction.

“Why do you think we rebelled?” Ray’s voice rose.

“A lack of civilized entertainment, clearly. I’ve been to your southern taverns.”

“Don’t make light of it!” He could feel the bitterness flare up once again, something so common these days. The Chantry had already framed the mage rebellion as some utter audacity of mages not staying still while getting robbed of their lives in every way imaginable. Then Vivienne had scoffed about the “malcontents” ruining the image of mages while she was probably prancing around intrigues with her influential lover in Val Royeaux. Cassandra would admit all the failures as long as she remained the only one allowed to do so. As for Varric… Ray had to wonder just how truthful the _Tale of the Champion_ was, given Varric’s take on the current events.

He really didn’t need yet another mage making flippant remarks. Especially not a Tevinter one. Ray became aware of having minutely closed his eyes, and biting on his lower lip, so he forced himself to exhale and get back some of his composure. Dorian was helping, and he was no more knowledgeable or involved with the Southern Circles than Sera or Blackwall were.

“Where taverns are concerned, I have been to three, two of them in the last month. Their lack in my life really doesn’t matter much. It’s not simply about being locked up.”

“It’s just… such a bizarre notion to me.”

“Count yourself lucky you didn’t grow up with it being normal then.” Ray shrugged, wishing the conversation would move in a different direction. “Do you have an idea why Alexius is with the Venatori? The information Leliana found on him doesn’t seem to match with what he’s currently doing.”

“Some things changed in his life,” Dorian shook his head, voice earnest for the first time. “But joining an inane cult is not what I expected from him regardless. You know,” he bore his gaze into Ray, ”you are surprisingly trusting of all this. Two Tevinters, telling you they’d go against a father and a mentor, doesn’t that sound like a trap to you?”

“I suppose if it turns out to be yet another trap, you would find yourself with a blade covered in magebane lodged somewhere. But you assume I wouldn’t know about going against a mentor and a parent.”

“Ah, such a pity!” Dorian exclaimed. “And here I thought it was all me being so charming and well-dressed.”

“If you say so,” Ray couldn’t help a smile sliding across his face. “You do that a lot, don’t you?” Dorian raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “The deflecting and dismissive quips. You’d get along with Varric. Me, I’m not so good at it.”

“I see, you prefer wearing your serious hat,” Dorian started again, but seemed to catch himself quickly enough. “So that changed for you as well? Your mentor and parents, I mean.”

“No,” Ray shook his head. “They didn’t change and that was the problem.” The First Enchanter’s death at the White Spire had ultimately made a lot of things easier. Helenia had been like a mother to him, yet when he’d learned that she was gone forever, he’d felt more relief than grief. His actual mother, of course, had somehow ended up placing the winning bets, even if it had looked like something of a last resort at the time. House Trevelyan would reap whatever benefits the Herald of Andraste could get them. “I have to go get some alchemy done, and you should get some warmer clothes.”

Leliana and a scout had reappeared, waiting. It seemed Dorian’s group was ready to depart. Ray gave the Tevinter mage his best smile. “Don’t get stabbed and see you at Redcliffe Castle.”

“Oh, you Southerners with your charming ways and weather!”

* * *

Ray sorted out things with Adan, instructed Bull to wait at the nearest camp to Redcliffe with the remainder of his people, and set off to look for Sera. Her cabin looked completely uninhabited, neither elf nor the bee flasks he was after anywhere in sight. Finally he found her near Harritt, preparing some arrows.

“Right, off to greet the cult in a cult then? Doesn’t get any more Tevinter than that, does it?”

“That is why I will take some bees along.” She had almost come around to the bees solution during their stay in the Hinterlands. “Come on, it’s for a good cause.”

She did relent and handed him the flasks after an episode of frowning, but wasn’t about to watch him fill them with bees. He wasn’t planning on using all the flasks anyway, just a few for testing, and then some more right before Redcliffe. 

“Are these bees bees?” Sera asked when he came back from behind Harritt’s house with three jars of bees ready. It had taken significant concentration to get so many of them in such a specific location, but only a few had ended up on the outside.

“Mostly, yes. They are not going to summon demons or anything. But they are not the type to make honey either, we’ve tried that.”

Since there weren’t any Venatori around, they ended up testing on a few unfortunate nugs. If disturbing was any measure, the endeavor was a roaring success. Ray had never actually had the need to use the Stinging Swarm spell offensively, it didn’t really work well against armored templars. He hoped he wouldn’t need to use it often, or the flasks for that matter, not against people and not against nugs either. Still, the flasks would be a good thing to have should he get silenced or drained of mana. Sera hated nugs for one reason or another, so the experience was rewarding enough for her to ask him to fill the rest of the flasks for her personal unsettling use.

* * *

_10 Harvestmere, 9:41_

Cassandra kicked in the door of the cabin where suspected Venatori had been seen entering and leaving, but it was empty now, and the party lowered their weapons. There was a strange feeling to the interior, like a whisper at the edge of consciousness. In hindsight they should have had expected precisely what they came upon in the backroom, a whole lot of enchanted items. The skulls took them by surprise still. They had seen the likes of them, though silent, scattered around the Hinterlands and the Storm Coast, but without knowing them connected to the Venatori, they had dismissed them as some Avvar practice. Cassandra picked up some papers lying nearby, took a glance and handed them to Ray.

He couldn’t understand all of the scribbled Tevene, but he understood enough.

“Those are,” Ray dropped the hand holding the papers, “those were Tranquil. The Venatori used them for scrying to search for something.” A search commanded by Alexius. Clemence had been lucky to get out when he had, the rest… some fifteen of them right there hadn’t made it.

“What a tragic waste,” Solas muttered. The second one in their lives, and of course it had been the first that had made it so that they wouldn’t be able to defend themselves.

“I had wondered where they had gone, I should have looked harder.”

“You saved the ones who were with Minaeve. That’s more than… most did.” He couldn’t put that blame squarely on Cassandra. He couldn’t even fully blame the mages who had left Tranquil disappear from under their noses. Few people cared about the mages, few mages cared about the Tranquil, and the Tranquil didn’t care about anything. “We’ll take a few later to see what the Venatori were after, and get someone to destroy the rest. Now let’s go deal with Alexius.”

Ray hoped whatever battle there were to be in the castle wouldn’t leave of Alexius even a skull.

* * *

_Harvestmere, 9:42_

He didn’t know what had made him kneel to remove the Venatori mage’s mask. Perhaps his voice had sounded familiar. It was Hanley, and the best reaction Ray could summon was a short incredulous laugh. The devout Andrastian, guilt-ridden over being part of the rebellion, now lying dead next to the bloodied body of the Chantry Mother he had tortured to death. He would have expected to find him in a cell like Lysas, waiting for the red lyrium to take over. Then again, the man had said that he followed, and followed he had.

The enemies they encountered weren’t hard to deal with. Mages reduced to torture and warriors collared and locked into their helmets. Some of them they even attacked mid-prayer, though what exactly this Elder One self-proclaimed god was offering in exchange for worship, was hard to deduce. Redcliffe castle had withstood three attacks by the Inquisition until the Inquisition had been no more, but the whole South at the very least was no more, with the Breach open and even more demons pouring out of the Fade. This wasn’t a future where mages ruled, it was merely a future where some of them survived for longer, and that was a questionable benefit.

Dorian’s self-assuredness had started waning as they advanced further into the castle, looking for a way to get through the enchanted barricade Alexius was behind. The mage still cast seemingly unperturbed, and when there was nothing else to pay attention to, Ray’s eyes were on him. He found it difficult to look at Solas and Cassandra, both carrying with themselves the hum of red lyrium, its glimmer in their eyes. They spoke from time to time in a voice that was slipping away from being theirs. It was yet more difficult to look at Leliana. Her face was haggard and disfigured, eyes milky. Only the voice was still hers, decisive and embittered. Ray couldn’t even look at most of the walls, not when they were either covered in red lyrium or sprayed with blood.

He had thought Solas’ casting reminded him of the way Elonna weaved Dalish magic because they were both elves. But Dorian was no elf, and although his magic looked nothing like theirs, it seemed to carry itself similarly. It had entirely too much flair, sparkles blooming and falling down where they weren’t really needed, arcs of flame lingering in the air a few seconds too long. It was beautiful because they thought it so. Ray didn’t know about Solas, he had no idea how being raised as a mage by spirits even worked. But Elonna had been raised as someone special and important, and likely so had been Dorian. 

Alexius was waiting for them, had been for a year, and waiting for the end. With Leliana cutting off all negotiations, Alexius attacked, and they did ultimately kill Dorian’s former mentor, amidst open rifts, demons, magic and bees.

“Once he was a man to whom I compared all others. Sad, isn’t it?” Dorian laid Alexius’ body on the ground and unfastened the amulet that could get them back to their time from around his neck.

* * *

_Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame._

Leliana pulled at the bowstring, doors to the throne room flying open.

_Andraste guide me. Maker, take me to your side._

Cassandra’s lifeless body hit the floor, thrown by the demon that stepped forth. Arrow after arrow flew loose from Leliana’s bow, but they couldn’t hold off the incoming flood.

“You move, and we all die.” Dorian grabbed his arm as an enemy arrow hit close to Leliana’s heart and she spun around. The rift was not open yet and he could do nothing, unable to use magic without disturbing Dorian’s spell.

The Veil behind him twisted, bubbling and spiraling open into a temporal rift that swelled up to envelop them, and the last thing he saw were Leliana’s eyes as a Venatori was holding her still and a demon thrust its claws into her stomach.

* * *

_10 Harvestmere, 9:41_

“So we have gained the mages. Excellent. They should be able to close the Breach.”

Solas intercepted him coming back from talking to Grand Enchanter Fiona. She had somewhat managed to put his mind to rest, at least as far as the mages’ safety and stability was concerned. However scared or desperate they had been in the last six months, they had been well organized and incidents had been rare. In a way that made it hurt more. Redcliffe had gotten along with hundreds of apostates for so long, and now they had to leave. Ray wasn’t even sure they would be allowed in Haven or around it, not even as allies. King Alistair had banished them from Ferelden and stormed out, his solders taking Alexius with them, the magister showing no resistance. The moment the King had turned his back on them, one of the scouts had approached with a quill and some parchment. Ray barely remembered what he had written. He sighed and looked at Solas, the elf overlooking the tents spread in the clearing and along the stone walls.

“And then what?” Even if the mages could live next to Haven, they couldn’t live in tents forever, not with winter coming.

“One hopes those in power will remember who helped and who did not.”

Ray hadn’t spoken to Cassandra yet, finding it difficult for the time being to reconcile the image of her limp body on the floor of throne room with that of her scowling and urging him to conscript the mages. She wanted them collared and he didn’t know whether closing the Breach successfully would change that. 

“You are certain you experienced time travel? Could it have been an illusion, a trick of the Fade?” The Solas in the future had seemed not so different from the one in the present, all things considered. Inquiring and looking for answers, even though he didn’t want to hear all of them. Cassandra hadn’t been herself in that cell, praying and blaming herself for failing everyone.

Bewildered, Ray shook his head. He hadn’t come out of the time rift heavily wounded, and what had been there Fiona had healed, but the tears and stains on his clothes told the story. He instinctively pressed a hand against his pocket to check for Alexius’ journal and the other papers he had picked up. Stories of Tevinter mages killing people in the Fade were abound, but he knew how his magic felt in the Fade. That trip had been through reality.

“No, it was real, I’d know the Fade.” Solas nodded his acknowledgment. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. My dreams… there is something wrong with them. They are not mine. They are just images, like you said. I witness things, but none of them come from my mind. The few conversations I’ve had barely made any sense. I’ve been testing with Equinor,” Ray kept his tone even, aware that Solas very much disapproved of the captive spirit. “It usually understands simple thoughts of speed and direction. But sometimes it doesn’t, and I have to empty my mind of pretty much everything else for it to react.”

“So it is more than them focusing on the mark exclusively.” Solas concluded, confirming his theory.

“Yes. They can’t read me, at least not easily.”

“Isn’t that beneficial to you right now? With so many drawn to you at least their attempts at temptation are foiled.” Maybe that would be some consolation, to Cullen, that is.

“I’ve had twenty years getting used to them,” Ray took off his glove and looked at the pale jagged mark. “Being shown glimpses of history, or at least the Fade’s take on it, is fascinating. Still, I wish I could dream about my old life as well. All of it is as good as gone now. I’ve half a mind to go back to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to see at least that one last memory again.”

“That would be unwise, it might destabilize the Breach. But I think I understand how you feel. Perhaps something can be done about it, once the Breach is closed.” Solas closed his eyes for a moment, and when he spoke again the optimism was gone from his voice. “I will devise the spell necessary for channeling the mages’ energy, I have already begun work. But I do not know how it will affect you.”

“You mean I could die,” Ray said flatly. Dying had always been a likely outcome in the past few weeks, and he should have been dead to start with, like everybody else at the Conclave. Josephine’s “more” in the form of the Inquisition, even after the Breach had been closed, had remained vague. Doing something about the situation in Ostwick had been as much as he could imagine doing, but the rest of Thedas had been just too big. Ostwick was barely larger than the Hinterlands that they had crossed more than once. But now there were Fiona’s mages, and as much as the former Grand Enchanter considered her title a formality, it wasn’t to anyone else. An alliance with her had as much legitimacy as the mages could get, more than the hundred in Ostwick or any of the other groups scattered across Thedas. His death would very much endanger that alliance.

“I do not know how likely that is. The spell is not inherently dangerous, but the power is meant to be collected in an object.”

“Such as the artifact that went missing?” Alexius had called him a mistake, and the mark - stolen, but the ones involved in the ritual were dead, so even Alexius likely didn’t really know what had happened. “But if the mark acts as a conduit, the power won’t be collected.”

“Poured into the Breach, yes. Still, even just passing through you… You are a mage, imagine if you will being submerged in lyrium.” That had never been a pleasant experience, even with just one hand submerged.

“Then let’s hope I will sleep for three days once again. Or just spill the contents of my stomach.” Though the latter was far more likely with his connection to the Fade hindered rather than torn wide open. “What if I die trying to close the Breach, and fail?”

“You witnessed what would happen. It is a future we must avoid at any cost.”

“Then I must find Dorian.”

* * *

Dorian, and Felix, for that matter, were nowhere to be found. King Alistair’s solders refused to let him talk to Alexius, but at least confirmed that Felix wasn’t with him. Ray spent another half hour walking around Redcliffe asking people, finally finding himself back with Fiona, hopeful that the two Tevinters might have sought refuge with the mages, but they weren’t there either. Fiona still seemed overly cautious with him, and now that he knew he might not be around for much longer, she had to be put properly in charge once again.

“I should thank you. The way things ended, you could have demanded anything you wished.”

“I asked precisely for what I wished,” Ray sighed. He really wasn’t in a position to criticize the mages in Redcliffe after the relative safety the ones in Ostwick had had. Still, now they had to come into their own, and neither the starting position nor the immediate future looked very accommodating. “A lot of the mages are unsure about the rebellion, so how about you? You were right at the center of it all.”

She had told him briefly about the events at the White Spire, and had confirmed his suspicion that there hadn’t been a vote by the first enchanters. Ostwick had declared its independence before the vote, and had Andoral’s Reach gone the other way, things would have turned very different for them.

“Despite all the chaos, I would do it again. What happened had to happen.”

“Then it’s time to start convincing everyone here of the same. I have the mark, but I would rather they followed you. I will do what I can with the Inquisition, but I could die at any time, and the mark might not get us far by itself.”

Fiona hesitated, her face less ashen now, eyes relaxed.

“The mark… the way Alexius spoke of it, do you know more of it?”

“It is magic,” He rubbed his face and sighed. “Some ritual that maybe Alexius knows more of. If this whole Herald of Andraste thing helps, I’m not going to publicly denounce it. Tell them whatever you need to get them on their feet.”

Word about allying the Inquisition had spread quickly among the mages, but so had the news of having to leave Redcliffe, and many were expectedly subdued. There hadn’t been any uproar or fighting, and Rion had said that the two mages he had suspected of being with the Venatori had vanished during the night. Ray still wished he could get Alexius to identify his people, if any remained.

The mages weren’t in a hurry to collect their belongings, putting off for as long as possible the moment they would need to fold the tents. Although it was still early in the afternoon, the days were growing shorter and it wouldn’t be more than a few hours until dusk started settling. They had to start leaving sooner rather than later because the King wanted them gone by dawn. However impulsive his decision might have been, in the end it was an order by the King. Where was the Marquis DuRellion when one needed him to claim Haven for Orlais?

“We will make do somehow. Hopefully King Alistair will keep his banishment restricted to the mages here. Do you know of any others in Ferelden?”

“It was I who invited the ire of King Alistair,” Fiona lowered her eyes. “There are many remote cells, here and elsewhere, but it would be unwise to pull them in now.”

* * *

With the entropy mage gone, and all but a few of the skulls turned to dust, Ray pulled on a wisp and sat down in the cabin to go through the papers from their trip into the future. The notes were a mix of Common and Tevene, the former likely by the mages who had succumbed to the Venatori. When he came to the pages detailing the Venatori’s experiments on the Blight sickness, Ray had to remind himself that this future had never happened, that the pages were all that remained of it. _I’m so sorry for everything you suffered._ He hadn’t known what Leliana had suffered at the time, but he was beginning to connect the dots, and now her hatred of Felix made sense. Or perhaps it had been just a way to make sure she would never be needed alive in that future, if they were to fail to get the world back.

Ray folded the report without reaching the end and put it aside, picking the magister’s journal next. He had looked at it for a few seconds earlier and hoped that the Tevine wouldn’t be too difficult to make sense of, given all the glyphs, diagrams and notes on magic. That wasn’t to be and the actual journal entries were about the only thing he could somewhat comprehend, the magic going straight over his head. It was either too foreign or too complex, or possibly both. With Dorian gone he would need Alexius for this. The rest of the papers were probably of less import, though nothing he’d want made public knowledge either.

When the door of the cabin opened, Ray slipped Alexius’ journal and the notes on Leliana in his pocket, and continued to skim through the rest of the papers with measured disinterest. A few seconds later Cassandra stood at the entrance to the room and looked first at the empty shelves, then at him, and finally at the notes in his hands.

“Just some research, I will look at it more closely later,” he rolled them up, pointedly ignoring the blood flecks that remained visible on the back of the outermost sheet.

“A group of mages is ready to leave. The former Grand Enchanter insisted on keeping the groups small and mixed, in both age and magic specialty.” Cassandra’s voice sounded slightly critical, but in light of the alliance he had been expecting worse. “It will slow them down, the road to Haven no less than four to five days.”

“We will let her be in charge of this,” Ray nodded. With another day or two for enough mages to gather in Haven, and some time for them to learn Solas’ spell, it would still be less than ten days until they tried to close the Breach for good. “She knows them better, and everyone will be safer that way.”

“It is your alliance. Although I wish you had considered my suggestion. They’ve proven what they’ll do, given too much freedom.”

“Too much freedom?” Ray raised an eyebrow. The gilded cage escapee was one to talk again. “They were desperate enough to sell themselves, so you want to punish them with the same? Besides, if the Inquisition had conscripted them and there was another rebellion from within, I would have felt obliged to join it.”

Of course, that would be significantly more difficult if he were to die before that. He wasn’t sure how much Cassandra was aware of at this very moment, but without a doubt Solas would need to tell the rest of them that there was a risk.

“Oh. I do sound like I’m blaming you, don’t I? I don’t disapprove. In fact, you did well. You made a decision when it needed to be made.” Ray grinned and gave a mocking bow, watching the Seeker slightly scrunch her nose in indignation. After a second she seemed to relax, however, more so than she had been at the start of their conversation. “I wish I could say this was my doing.”

“Just remember that after the Breach is closed.”

“I will not forget. Though I cannot speak for others.”

* * *

Two of Leliana’s people immediately joined him before Redcliffe’s gates, although he had done his best to slip unnoticed. He had only briefly run to Fiona to tell her to send only trusted people with the first groups, hopeful that Leliana would be able to get the King to let them have Alexius. The man had appeared broken enough, laying a second trap seemed unlikely. Still, having Felix around would have helped a lot.

He rode straight to the camp to instruct Bull to watch the passing mages closely without getting involved unless absolutely necessary. Even if the majority of the mages hadn’t been raised with the image of the Qunari, Bull and his cleaver looked intimidating enough on their own.

“So it’s all coming together now, huh? With _mages_ , but still.” Bull huffed, arms folded. “You close the Breach, the Chantry gets off its ass, and everybody goes home?”

“You think?” Seemed overly optimistic, seeing as the mages didn’t have a home, and even Haven was currently not entirely confirmed as an interim place to stay. The Breach had only paused everything else, not resolved it.

“It could happen. It won’t, but it _could_. Biggest problem for the Inquisition right now isn’t on the front line. It’s at the top. You’ve got no leader. No Inquisitor. Once you’ve sealed the Breach, it’s gonna be time to make decisions. Someone’s gonna have to step up.”

Ray had always considered Cassandra the most likely to do so once things had started clearing up, but his last conversation with her made it seem less of a certainty. She probably would, if nobody else did, but she had too many failed organizations behind her, and way too vague ideas of what she wanted. She was quite like Mother Giselle in that they both spoke in the broadest terms, but Ray was never too sure of just how much Mother Giselle held back in favor of not antagonizing him. Cassandra had made no secret of being brash and impulsive, and unlike the Revered Mother she seemed quite incapable of holding back and being deceptive.

“If it proved necessary to have an Inquisitor, I could make a go of it.” Provided he survived closing the Breach, better him than someone else. Else this Inquisition could end up quite like the last one.

“You?” Bull grunted, but with more interest than dismissal. “Why you?”

Well, Josephine would like that, maybe even Leliana would. No question about the Trevelyans and Ostwick in general. The Chantry would not, even if it wasn’t in any position to lead an Exalted March right now. With the Breach closed, however, it would eventually recover. Then there wouldn’t be too much standing in their way if the Inquisition remained as it was now.

“Nobody else seems to be stepping forward, and since I can seal rifts, I’m here whether I like it or not.” 

“For a second there, you sounded like a Qunari.” Bull’s expression was unreadable, whether because he was good at keeping it like that, or simply because he was the first Qunari Ray had ever spoken to.

“And I suppose you imagine that a compliment?”

“Didn’t think you’d take it as one,” Bull gave a throaty laugh. “My people don’t pick leaders from the strongest, or the smartest, or even the most talented. We pick the ones willing to make the hard decisions… and live with the consequences.”

“All right, I can see now how it’s not much of a compliment.” Life at the Circle hadn’t been full of choices, and his latest one would probably be at the bottom of the popularity lists. He’d take things one at a time, and try to stay alive first, maybe he wouldn’t need to live with any consequences at all. “Spread your people along the road to Haven for the mages… and have them not freak out at a wisp.”

“Don’t worry, we are professionals,” Bull picked up his weapon. “And we are not into slaughtering children. Red’s coming.”

Ray startled and turned around. Leliana was on horseback, the Chargers’ talking drowning what noise the hooves would have made through the grass. Nothing more than a few lines disturbed the smoothness of her face, skin unblemished. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since their eyes had met, and it felt like his heart was beating loudly enough for her to hear.

“What are you doing here?” She was giving him a hard look, like she knew something. Before he could start explaining himself, however, she continued, “Nevermind that. Get changed, at least your coat, and go to the castle. I’m going to talk to Alistair.”

The next moment she was gone, the Chargers somehow quick enough to move aside to let her through as she broke into gallop.


	14. Chapter 14

_10 Harvestmere, 9:41_

The servant had a limp and guided Leliana slowly through familiar halls, the castle not significantly changed since she’d last been here. Others were scurrying everywhere, scrubbing away the last of Tevinter presence. Leliana welcomed the plain Fereldan decorations, her semi-formal riding garb opulent enough in the midst of it.

“Take these to the pyre, and see if the water is done!” An muffled irritated voice came through a door to her left, and in the next moment the door creaked open to let through an elven serving girl, half a dozen thick tomes balanced on her forearms and Tevinter drapery looped over her elbows. Leliana recognized one of her agents and moved aside to let her pass.

“Sorry, milady, thank you, milady,” the girl muttered, head kept low, and made for the stairs, steps just a bit too firm, betraying her strength.

“Ah, everyone is angry today,” the servant had turned around, shaking his head. He closed the door to the room quietly. “I am sorry you have to witness all this, my lady. Redcliffe owes better reception to her saviors.”

Leliana tried to place the man’s face, unsuccessfully. He must have been there, ten years prior, fighting the undead. Still, with two Grey Wardens and a golem fighting as well, Leliana didn’t think many remembered her arrows in a battle.

“The name’s Crieff, my lady. My daughter was nine then, I had to carry her kicking and screaming into the chantry before the attack. Not fifteen minutes later there she was, together with the other children, quietly listening to your stories.” The servant chuckled. “Only had eyes for you at the ceremony the next day. Shot a straighter arrow than her father only four years later. Valiant as a warrior of legend these days.”

“Please tell her that I am honored to have been an inspiration. May she bring yet more joy and pride into your life.” The man bowed, and when they moved ahead again, Leliana chose to walk at his side rather than follow. “I haven’t spoken to King Alistair in years. To meet here again after all this time, fate has its ways.”

“Everyone is happy to have His Majesty here again, in his hometown. A pity the occasion was not a joyous one, but we can breathe freely again. It’s been a hard few months.”

“With all the mages even before the Tevinters arrived, you mean?”

“It’s not my place to question decisions, my lady.” They arrived at another flight of stairs, and Crieff gripped the railing, pulling himself up at every step. He threw another apologetic look at her, and Leliana wished she had put on a dress, so that her movement would appear equally obstructed. “But I take inventory of the castle’s supplies, so I know how long food lasts. Once the unrest outside started, Redcliffe had to use reserves. The mages are not bad people, but there were too many of them.”

Most of the Hinterlands was out in the fields to collect what could be salvaged of the yield, but much had also been destroyed or picked clean. Leliana hoped it would be a mild winter, and one to come late, too. Haven’s reserves were running low as well, and with the civil war in Orlais they might need to look to the Free Marches.

“Heard that villages had to chase them away or risk attacks by the templars,” he continued. “We had the walls, but, you know, people don’t want to have to fight knights of the Chantry. Girl brought over a lad a couple of weeks ago, one of them mages. Too quiet and shy for her, I told her, but youth doesn’t like to listen.” Crieff laughed quietly, crinkles around his eyes. “Table manners of a lord, stammered like a kitchen boy. Nevarran, long way from home. It’s sad they all have to go.”

“His Majesty must have been very angry.” A quick look through the notes Charter had handed her had put Leliana’s mind at ease. A Fereldan arl’s involvement would damped Alistair’s indignation.

“More the Arl right now, a castle under his care, you understand. The Tevinters didn’t destroy much though, just made themselves at home and kept everyone scared.”

* * *

“Your Majesty, Lady Leliana, Champion of Redcliffe!” Crieff proudly announced her, then bowed again and retreated. Leliana was standing in the same guest bedroom they had given to Aileas after Connor had been rescued.

“Leliana!” Alistair rose from his seat in front of the fireplace to greet her, a happy exclamation quite different from anything she’d heard in the Orlesian court.

“Your Majesty,” Leliana made the slightest of bows.

“Alistair, please. We have shared a camp fire for far too long to entertain formalities.” Alistair sat back and gestured for her to do the same in the seat opposite of his. “I am glad you are alive and well. With the Conclave, at first I thought… I meant to visit Haven, your letter found me in Highever. Amell wasn’t at the Conclave, was she?”

The concern in his voice was a welcome surprise. Perhaps things really were fine between the two of them.

“No, thank the Maker, she wasn’t.” For the first time in months Leliana could talk to someone who had really known Amell, and she felt her vision blur. “I haven’t even heard of her in months. The Wardens of Orlais have gone missing, and the keeps have been abandoned. I have tried… I couldn’t do anything. We managed to find one, Warden Blackwall, but he knows nothing.”

“Blackwall… I’ve heard Duncan mention him. Good man. I passed through Amaranthine on my way to Denerim. Weisshaupt didn’t deign to give Nathaniel Howe any answers either, even though they finally made him Warden-Commander after Amell’s latest disappearance. He has still been more of an arl than a Grey Warden.”

Leliana frowned demonstratively. Two years after the Blight the two had gone to Vigil’s Keep, mostly on a whim. They had found quite the Orlesian mess there, however, with most of Aileas’ friends missing, save for Nathaniel Howe. Leliana hadn’t been at the meetings that had followed, but when everything was over the Orlesians had been given a swift kick - including their commander. Howe had been raised as his replacement, and for all intents and purposes charged with taking care of Amaranthine as well. The nobles in the arling had been more than slightly confused, having gone from being vassals to the Howes, to damning them, to being vassals by proxy once again. Naturally, someone had come up with the idea of a marriage between Amell and Howe to clear up rights and responsibilities. Aileas had returned to the keep only to relegate to Howe everything that could be relegated.

“I’ve missed that expression on your face. Of course staying with you and getting spoiled was more important to her than the arling.” Alistair’s lips curled up and the words didn’t carry any harshness with them, tone more wistful than it was dismissive. “She never accepted it, did she? Being a Grey Warden, dying a Grey Warden. She said she never recruited anyone after she left Vigil’s Keep, and she couldn’t leave it quickly enough.”

When the breakdown had happened, Wynne had held Leliana back, telling her it was good for ten years of repressed emotions to be let out. Aileas hat yelled at the healer about the Circles, then yelled at Alistair about the Wardens. She had even tried having a go at Morrigan, but the witch had laughed it off, and Shale had pointed out that _it_ having blood was _its_ own problem. That had been the only occasion on which Leliana had seen her inconsolably sob into the cot in her tent, unable to speak a word. It had been another couple of weeks before Aileas had told her about the Calling and the Taint. One could say that Morrigan had been a bad influence, she had most certainly been that. But whether it was decisions like Avernus and Morrigan’s ritual, months spent at libraries in Weisshaupt and the Imperium, or simply staying in Orlais, everything since then had been Aileas trying to avoid, outwit or outright ignore the darkspawn’s poison.

“I will consider her cure for the Calling, should she be successful at finding it.” Alistair stood up and walked to the fireplace. “Wardens will always be needed, but the Blight is over, and I’m never going to be out there killing darkspawn again, it seems. In the long run it will be better for Ferelden, and we’re not getting any younger.” He grimaced slightly and Leliana wondered whether his pale and waxy complexion had anything to do with the Taint, or was simply due to work and stress. “Of course, that will depend on what the cure is. Her clues ranged from possession to blood rituals.”

Leliana hesitated for a moment, but Fiona and Anders were not even names as far as this was concerned. “I think she had ruled out possession last we spoke.”

“Then we only have a few blood rituals to worry about, what a relief! I’m sure Weisshaupt would be thrilled.” Alistair turned to face her, arms crossed. “You know as well as I do, Leliana. I should have never been made king, and a Warden should have died. Then I wouldn’t have Weisshaupt swinging between giving me the cold shoulder and trying to use me as a king rather than as warden. And Amell wouldn’t be perpetually in hot water with them.”

Leliana had a pretty strong suspicion that Aileas would have ended up the same with the Wardens, one way or another. It trumped death any time. And Alistair would have never wanted Loghain as a Hero of Ferelden.

“You are a popular king, Alistair. Like you said, you being around will be better for Ferelden. I don’t mean to diminish Queen Anora’s contribution, of course.”

“I shudder to think. I won’t be getting out of another lesson in diplomacy now, even though her letter about Redcliffe was just as harsh. But she’ll just say that once the situation had been evaluated, we should have thought about the bigger threat first blah blah. You know how it is. Or you don’t. I would rather not know, leave these things to her, and rebuild instead. Ten years, Leliana, and we had Denerim, Amaranthine, Gwaren, and now Highever restored. And then someone wipes the Temple of Sacred Ashes off the map. _My_ map.”

He took the distance back to his seat in a single step, and sat down with a sigh.

“When it happened, I was about to officially reopen the harbor in Highever. Instead it turned into a vigil for the Divine. I meant to visit after Cousland got a letter from you, but then there were all the demons to deal with. And then your letter to me, Anora’s letter, and finally Arl Teagan at the end of his strength. I think that Tevinter meddled with his head with some blood magic, too, some things are very confusing. What in Andraste’s name is going on?”

Since blood magic was still preferable to blame rather than time magic, Leliana let the story flow with that instead. Alistair had to admit that the Inquisition had done a good job being there for the people in the Hinterlands when they had needed it most, even if he didn’t miss the opportunity to point out again that Haven was his, and the Inquisition - Orlesian. Perhaps Haven would one day become a pilgrimage again, and with Justinia gone, Ferelden saw the opportunity to take back what, weakened from the Blight years ago, they hadn’t been able to refuse handing over.

“So, I’ll admit I wasn’t in the best of moods. I offered the rebel mages safe harbor in Ferelden only to have them drive my uncle out of his town. Of all the places to slip so hard, mages had to pick Redcliffe. There’s scarcely a place in Ferelden where they’d be more welcome, even without our invitation. Do tell me, Leliana, is stabbing people in the back something mages just can’t help themselves doing?”

There was apparently no escaping the past, and Leliana had barely gotten five minutes being the Inquisition’s, and was Amell’s once again. Infighting in Ferelden was better avoided, but they were at the end of their game and bringing up old wounds was not doing the mages any favors. Leliana handed him the letters her people had recovered.

“It appears the Venatori had help in the face of Arl Gallagher Wulff.” Wulff’s lands lay south of Redcliffe, at the edge of the Hinterlands. “If the letters are to be believed, he helped them infiltrate to gain the mages’ trust, albeit with the good intentions of sending them to Tevinter where they could lead a better life, and thus removing the conflict from Ferelden.”

“But Arl Wulff is an honorable man! To work with these nasty little cultists in secret, that cannot be the explanation!” Alistair was flipping through the letters, angry rather than begrudging. One honorable man might need to take the fall. Or not as honorable as that, she had lost people to the Venatori that had crawled out from his place.

“There is also the fact that most of Ferelden’s key cities have been rebuilt, while West Hills lies more or less forgotten and decrepit, so close to the Korcari Wilds. The fighting between mages and templars wouldn’t have made relief efforts come any sooner.”

“Right! You know what, I’ll leave this to Anora. She’s the one good with intentions and evaluations,” Alistair folded the letters and stuffed them in his pocket. “This changes some things, but not all of them. The mages can stay at Haven. Even if they were being tricked, however, Redcliffe has done more than enough for them.”

“What about Connor? I must admit I was surprised to learn he was here… and about how he felt.”

“Connor will come to Denerim,” Alistair wiped his brow, now glistening with sweat from the agitation. “Who would have thought, Tevinter wasn’t the place for him after all the… demony things he went through. Amell would have hated to see the state he’s in. I kept inviting her over and over, you know. To stay as a royal advisor for these things. I would bet you we wouldn’t have this mess on our hands now, if she had listened. But it was always either Weisshaupt, or a mission, or…” he looked at Leliana pointedly to avoid spelling out “you”.

“The Aldenon to your Calenhad?” Leliana smiled sadly. “Alistair, the rumors would have become certainty sooner or later, if she hadn’t disappeared from the public eye. They would have torn her down in the end, maybe dragged you off the throne as well. Even under Justinia the Chantry had it out for Ferelden after you ruffled feathers with the Circle.”

“That Herald of yours… he’s also a mage, isn’t he? Listen to me, I’m starting to sound like Shale! Is he around?”

“I told him he might be needed, he should be waiting.” 

“Good,” Alistair walked to the door quickly, opened it and spoke to the soldier outside. By the time he had turned back to her, Leliana had stood up. “Just so you know, I didn’t do all this for her. I do happen to think differently about mages than the Chantry, as does Anora. And we _do_ know they are an army. So the moment the threat is over and you’ve made up your mind about mages and templars, either release them from your alliance, or move them out of Ferelden. Kinloch Hold is still theirs, if they want to move in. There are some hundred at Ostagar as well, though it isn’t the best place to spend a winter. Thirty or so with Howe at Vigil’s Keep. It would be nice to know where the Chantry stands, at last, so that Ferelden can have her subjects.”

There didn’t seem to be much point in reiterating that the Inquisition wasn’t the Chantry, and getting Kinloch Hold seemed to be as good of a deal as the mages would get once the Breach was closed. The Inquisition would help with rogue templars waiting to attack or starve them out, if needed.

Both Trevelyan and Arl Teagan were shown in. Taking in the sight of the three of them, Leliana could see that the years of ruling hadn’t been kind. Trevelyan was only a couple of years younger than the king, and Teagan had been looking quite youthful last Leliana had seen him. Yet the mage looked like a youth next to them.

“Herald of Andraste,” Alistair turned to him and Trevelyan had no choice but to bow and acknowledge the title. “Tell me, do you hear voices? Have dreams sent by the Maker? Seen any barren bushes bloom?”

“No, Your Majesty, I have not.” Confusion was added to the worried expression on Trevelyan’s face. Alistair crossed his arms and threw Leliana an amused glance. “Then I’ve had crazier.”

“Now to business. Of the mages who are in Redcliffe and its lands, Connor, nephew to the Arl, will leave with me. Those who have family in Redcliffe may stay. From the rest I expect you to select a dozen more to remain as well, skilled in teaching and healing, and whatever else is needed. You will take the others, including Grand Enchanter Fiona, to Haven, where not a single person is to lose their home to a mage. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The smile of joy and relief only failed to melt Teagan’s heart. “Thank you, Your Majesty. We will do our best to close to Breach.”

“Would be a rather pointless title if you were to fail and herald a whole bunch of demons instead. Uncle,” as Alistair turned to the arl, Trevelyan shot Leliana a look that veered away even before she could read anything from it. “Please prepare the list of reparations that we talked about.” Arl Teagan responded with a stiff bow.

“I would ask you to join us for dinner, but I think you’d rather get to work, Herald. The mages can stay another day, if it will help them pack better. Now, if there’s nothing else…?”

Another glance made it in Leliana’s direction, once again gone in the blink of an eye. If Trevelyan was trying to communicate something to her, it wasn’t going to work like that.

“Your Majesty, one last request, if I may. Magister Alexius might be needed to…” Leliana had no idea where Trevelyan was going with this, and wasn’t about to find out as Alistair scoffed and waved his hand.

“Oh, do take that blighted magister off my hands. Last one who tried to enslave people on Fereldan soil I slew personally, but I didn’t have to deal with diplomacy then. Leliana, I’ll leave him to your people. Stay for dinner and we’ll arrange everything afterwards.”

Once again Trevelyan only spared her a quick look before he bowed and left the room, and she was forced to turn her attention to Arl Teagan instead.

“My lady, it is a joy to see you again after such a long time. If not sent by Andraste herself, you are always here to herald a Redcliffe free of peril.”

It was going to be one long evening.

* * *

_12 Harvestmere, 9:41_

“What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight? The Veil is torn open!” It seemed to Leliana that half the time Cullen forgot the Herald was a mage. If Trevelyan wavered now, they could lose the mages after the Breach was closed, and they had to think of what came after, if there were to be an after. The war hadn’t stopped even with the sky torn, it was foolish to think it would end with with it healed.

“We are not monsters. We can control ourselves without any outside help.”

“This is not an issue of self-control. Even the strongest mages can be overcome by demons in conditions like these! It is not a matter for debate. There will be abominations among the mages, and we must be prepared!”

“ _We_ will be prepared. Your ‘oversight’ is neither needed nor helpful, unless you want to recreate the conditions you seem to know so well.”

They were standing against each other, Cassandra at Cullen’s side, Josephine and her at Trevelyan’s. An escalation seemed inevitable, but then Josephine stepped between them.

“If we rescind the offer of an alliance, it makes the Inquisition appear incompetent at best, tyrannical at worst.” The interruption had Cullen turning for help to Cassandra instead.

“You were there, Seeker! Why didn’t you intervene!” Cassandra, however, avoided getting dragged into this by neither condoning, nor condemning Trevelyan’s decision. Truthfully, it was strange that she hadn’t intervened indeed. Judging by the looks she had for the Herald, Cassandra wasn’t on board with the whole idea.

* * *

Leliana entered Josephine’s office and briefly startled at the sight of Trevelyan, slumped over the table in the corner, head propped on one outstretched arm. A heavy blanket had been draped over his shoulders, and everything on the table but the papers under him had been moved aside. Josephine gave her a worried smile.

“Does lyrium affect mages just like it does templars?”

Leliana supposed that would explain the whole hill where the mages were to pitch their tents being cleaned up of rocks and debris within less than two hours. Anger could only fuel so much magic by itself. The war council had ended on a positive note, largely due to Solas giving the impression that Trevelyan’s death wasn’t such a likely outcome, especially if the mages’ power was introduced gradually until it sufficed. Still, it wouldn’t be an easy week to get through.

“It is always addictive, but far less so for mages, and the side effects are transient. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.” Leliana stepped forward and handed Josephine a few notes. “I got the locations of other mage settlements from Fiona. Most are relatively fine where they are, but a few might benefit from you contacting the respective rulers to notify them of the Inquisition’s alliance.”

“The powers have already taken notice. Reactions are mixed, but there is enough to work with. We will need more people in Orlais though, if we are to watch for what he told us about the empress. One of Madame de Fer’s contacts earned us an invitation from Duke Cyril de Montfort, who assumed a seat in the Council of Heralds after his father’s demise. I would like for us to meet with him as soon as the Breach is closed.”

“Good. We have the advantage of knowing what the enemy is planning. It’s a pity he didn’t learn much else during that trip, but coming alive out of it is still a blessing.” Trevelyan had been understandably reluctant to talk in detail about what he had witnessed, although something had been decidedly wrong with his behavior around Leliana ever since. Dorian had managed to wiggle his way out of her questioning rather eloquently, and Leliana thought it better to press Trevelyan before she had no choice but to threaten the Tevinter mage into spilling everything. He had looked scared enough for it to work, underneath all the bravado. “Send him to me when he wakes up, will you, Josie.”

* * *

Trevelyan’s relationship with Josephine gave Leliana unrest. Partly because it was utterly undefined, but mostly because Josephine was so wholeheartedly into it. She hadn’t even talked to apostates at any length before, and yet right from the start she had been the one to set the right tone with the Herald. Things had evened out a bit eventually, but there was still a marked difference between how Trevelyan treated Josephine compared to his attitude toward everyone else. It was infuriating, because there was _nothing_ , at least nothing Leliana wouldn’t do with Josephine and consider no more than spending time with a friend. But Josephine had been a friend for years, and Trevelyan had known her for weeks, with only a few days spent in Haven.

It was even more infuriating not knowing what it all meant to Trevelyan. Or what it meant to Josephine, above all. She certainly knew of all the gossip, yet she never brought it up, and Leliana didn’t want to play the older sister card without good cause.

Truly, she had meant to stay out of this. She’d stay and watch until Trevelyan had made his intentions clear. Josephine was never going to be the one to take the first step in her current position. But now Dorian Pavus of Minrathous had strutted in, and Trevelyan had extended him an over-enthusiastic invitation to join them, accompanied by the most besotted smile Leliana had ever witnessed on his face, and she had never witnessed one before. Maybe he was far less clueless than Leliana had thought, and she’d better question him on the game he was playing.

* * *

“Your open support for the mages likely earned you enemies. Our agents will monitor the situation. If the most opposed can be identified, we may still turn this to our advantage.”

Trevelyan took a sip from his wine and sighed. “I doubt people expected anything different. They can hate me if they wish.”

“That gets us nowhere. The Inquisition is young. We need to build our support. Regardless, I applaud you for your courage to stand up for the mages. The situation in Redcliffe was disappointing.”

“Disappointing, yes.” He drank again with an even more miserable expression, and continued to stare into the goblet rather than look at her. “And Ostwick is partly to blame. We should have tried to do more, organize something. I don’t know.”

“The backbone of the rebellion was broken at the Conclave. You couldn’t have possibly prevented that. We will try to bring other scattered mages to safety once we have better control of the situation. For good or ill, it looks like approaching the templars for help as well will be impossible.” Trevelyan gave her a questioning look that held more relief than concern. “The Bull’s Chargers sent note that Therinfal Redoubt has been abandoned. Whatever happened there left behind quite a few corpses. It is unlikely that the rest are in the mood for talking. On the bright side, His Majesty has issued an official banishment from Ferelden of any templars not loyal to the Chantry. The people will feel safer defending themselves and aiding mages.”

“Thank you for coming to the rescue. I don’t know how you managed to do what you did there.”

“King Alistair is an old friend. It was just an impulsive moment. He can recognize the greater danger and get over his feelings on the matter.” She leaned back in her seat and waited another few seconds for Trevelyan to look at her, in vain. “In the future you saw, did you kill me?”

Trevelyan’s head jerked up and there was enough bewilderment in his eyes for her to surmise that her guess had been wrong.

“No,” he finally muttered. “But you were there, and you died. You sacrificed yourself so that I could return here.”

“Of course I did.” Maker, she could feel the relief in her own laughter. “Is that what you’ve been getting all worked up about? One small life in exchange for a second chance at history? I always loved a bargain.”

“It was still a sacrifice and still noble.” He sighed, the haunted look unaffected by her reassurance. “That is not all of it. You hadn’t been left to the red lyrium like the others. They had tortured you… the mages had. You were angry at them, and at magic. You were right to be. But you just picked up your bow and still defended us to the end.”

He drank the rest of his wine in one breath, and Leliana was lost for a moment. _Her_ mage wouldn’t have let that happen to her, which meant Aileas had been dead in that future. But she wasn’t one to be lost in a future of mages. What if it was never the future she had died in, what if she was already dead, somewhere to the west?

Trevelyan looked sadder and more dejected now, probably figuring he’d just lost her support and thinking Maker knows what else. He was far too sheltered for this after all. Leliana took the wine bottle and refilled the goblets, then did her best to shake off the thoughts that had nothing to do with the current situation.

“This happened in a future we are going to avoid. Think well about what this means for the mages. They are going to be placing their trust in you, and everything will be pointless if all you see in them is a memory of something that never happened.”

“ _I_ know that! But…”

“So don’t think that I do not,” Leliana shrugged. “If you expect no mage to commit a crime, you will be sorely disappointed. Some will, and when they do, they will be dealt with. I think Fiona knows that as well, or the peace in Redcliffe wouldn’t have kept for so long. By the way, here are all the damages Arl Teagan could come up with.”

Trevelyan took the paper and looked at Leliana, stunned.

“That’s it?” A freehold had been burned down, some crops and farms suffered, and five people had been injured by panicked children. A drunken group of soldiers sometimes wreaked more havoc than that on a town in a single night.

“That’s the reality. Although I do appreciate trusting me with what you saw.” She nudged forth his goblet. Wine had never made anyone less sincere. “Let me ask you something else then. What are your intentions toward Josephine? An entanglement with our ambassador seems _most_ unwise.”

“An entanglement?”

“I asked Josephine to join the Inquisition because we needed a diplomat. Not so she could be toyed with.”

“Why would I toy with Josephine? She is the one holding a lot of this together.” To his credit, Trevelyan looked genuinely confused, to the point it being ridiculous.

“I don’t mean you writing diplomatic letters together,” Leliana rolled her eyes. “I mean the walks in the snow, the magic tricks and everything else you talk about that isn’t business of the Inquisition.”

“She is perfectly safe,” Trevelyan declared after a few seconds. The weird non sequitur reminded Leliana of that one time when she had told Amell that she felt safe with her, and how it had been received more emotionally than perhaps even the declaration of love.

“ _Merde._ I’m talking about you bedding her and then tossing her aside. I know it doesn’t get the acknowledgment it deserves in the Circle, but this is not the Circle. Josephine is an innocent in love, and not even a Herald of Andraste gets to break her heart!”

“You don’t get to teach me about the Circle!” In a split second Trevelyan’s face darkened with more anger than Leliana had ever witnessed from him. She had overstepped something, gotten one of the reactions Cassandra talked about, but then Trevelyan himself might have felt the same way, because he too went quiet for a few moments, and the anger dissipated from his eyes. “I know it is different. Josephine is smart, kind and beautiful, a firstborn noble and something akin to an Antivan princess. I am not trying to beguile her and ruin her life.”

It was a good thing they weren’t anywhere more formal, because Leliana couldn’t stop herself from snorting, hiding her face in her hands and bursting into laughter quite without restraint. Of all the vague non-confessions she had ever heard… Josephine was going to kill her.

“I am sorry,” she raised her eyes, unable to make the grin disappear. “I meant no offense. I only ask that you treat her with kindness. She is a dear friend. As long as she’s one to you as well, we won’t have a problem.”

Trevelyan nodded and offered a hesitant smile in return.

“Then I will start work on stabilizing our alliance with the mages. Which reminds me, since Sera isn’t using the cabin we prepared for her, we could give it to Lord Pavus. I am afraid people haven’t been entirely welcoming to him, and you were the one who invited him.”

“He saved us,” Trevelyan murmured unhappily. Still, Tevinter was Tevinter, even he ought to understand that. “I haven’t seen him around since before the council.”

“He went straight into the tavern and hasn’t left it much since. The events must have been hard on him as well.”

* * *

After Trevelyan had left, Leliana contemplated the situation for a moment. Josephine was likely to pick up on a change in attitude, should there be one, and also likely to get the reason for it out of the mage, whether he intended to keep quiet or not. It was better to come clean right away. 

“You look different,” Josephine noted. Leliana closed the door carefully and approached to sit on the edge of the desk.

“Different how? Hm, writing to Orzammar?” She pointed at the paper.

“You seem more… uplifted. Have you played a prank, results impending any moment now?” Leliana laughed and shook her head. Josie returned the smile and gestured at the letter. “I am finalizing a lyrium deal, for our mages. The Chantry is too weak and disorganized to stop us anyway, there is no need to seek out smugglers.”

“Oh, this will be good. Luckily the Herald doesn’t care for their approval, or the backlash would be very disheartening.”

Josephine sighed and lowered her quill. “Lyrium will make us a force to be reckoned with, so the backlash will come. Still, we have willing allies, and for the first time he appears to truly care about staying alive and seeing that the Inquisition does well.” She lowered her eyes back to the letter. “If only there were a guarantee…”

“He survived the Conclave and being tossed through time, Josie. He’ll be fine.” Josephine’s fingers gripped the quill tighter, the knuckles turning white. Leliana placed a hand on top of hers. “Josie, falling for him might not be the best idea.”

Josephine pulled her hand away and glared at her. “Leliana! I don’t believe this! Of all the… you are one to talk, not to mention jump to conclusions!”

“You mean to tell me I have misread the situation? Interesting.” Josie’s face tinted red at her words. “I am only worried about you. Were he some sleazy chevalier, I wouldn’t care, but this is no courtly intrigue. He might be a bit confused and… expressing things differently.”

“You have spoken to him about this.” Josephine’s eyes narrowed dangerously and Leliana put up her best guilty-as-charged face. “You are impossible! I am no child, Leliana!” Josephine pushed herself up from the desk and stepped around it, arms crossed, to face Leliana. “I appreciate your concern. And it makes me happy, even if only to see you focusing on something other than work.” Her hands fell to her sides. “You are not entirely wrong… what did he say?”

“To be honest, Josie, everything and nothing. I truly think he is confused. Perhaps in how he feels, or perhaps in how he thinks he is allowed to feel. The way things are, you will need to be the one to make the first move.”

“No,” Josephine stated firmly outright. “I won’t be doing that.”

“I don’t mean right now, but once the Breach…” Leliana felt a bit ridiculous, suddenly being turned into the one advocating for this.

“It is not about the Breach. Despite what you might think, and despite all of the gossiping, he has never been… overly romantic.” Josephine crossed her arms again and continued in a decidedly drier tone. “It also seems he expresses things quite like anybody else.” Her lips stretched into a sideways smile. “You couldn’t have possibly missed the way he looked at Lord Dorian.”

The two chuckled simultaneously.

“He has lost friends that were like family to him. If he extends his friendship to me, it will never be second best, Leliana. If he is confused, then let him move at his own pace. For your sake, I hope you didn’t threaten him.”

This was quite the if-you-hurt-my-friend deadlock. “Don’t worry, I think it only made him appreciate me more. Maybe I shouldn’t have meddled, but now I have to watch over him for your sake too, so it’s not all bad for him. Oh well, we’ll know soon enough if it is just lust.”

Josephine eyed her suspiciously. “What did you do?”

“Gave him a drink and sent him to Dorian.”

“You are _impossible_!”


	15. Chapter 15

_12 Harvestmere, 9:41_

Dorian had indeed taken refuge in the tavern after paying a visit to Ambassador Montilyet to officially join the Inquisition. The Antivan had been pleasant and polite, all of her questions open to anything from the barest of responses to a complete confession about any aspect of his life. None had been about what had happened in Redcliffe Castle.

That particular line of questioning had already been completed by Leliana, and he’d had trouble looking at her and thinking of anything else but her slitting Felix’s throat. Back in Redcliffe, as soon as everyone’s attention had shifted to the newly allied mages, Dorian had dragged Felix away, paid a boatman to take the two of them west across the lake, and procured horses from the first village they had come upon. His initial idea had been for the two of them to ride straight to Jader, take a ship to Cumberland, and make it safely to Tevinter. In the end, however, Dorian had given Felix whatever gold he had and turned back on the road to Haven. Neither had mentioned Alexius because neither knew what the king was going to do with him. Ferelden was famous for quick punishments rather than endless court proceedings and extended prison sentences, and speculating on the matter would have been too painful for Felix.

The detour had made Dorian reach Haven roughly at the same time as the Herald, with no time for even the quickest of talks in private, hence no idea which parts of the story were being shared. Leliana had alternated between looking skeptical and irritated throughout his vague narration of the events, but had then released him from the interrogation, making it clear that he was being watched. He had gathered the last of his small coins and promptly gone for a drink. Hopefully the first stipend he got from the Inquisition would come sooner rather than later.

If someone was to watch him, they would have no problem finding him. Dorian had to congratulate himself on being the sole occupant of a good quarter of the tavern, and not for lack of clientele. Perhaps he ought to be holding a public speech on the differences between a magister and just a mage from Tevinter. Or perhaps the crowd wouldn’t really care for technicalities as long as he was from Tevinter. The barmaid had retreated hastily after bringing him each mug of horrible ale. He’d had three so far. Or maybe four. He wasn’t losing any sleep over the whole bunch huddling to the sides. There were other things to think about, like Felix, the Venatori, the Breach, Tevinter, the Inquisition, the Herald and his mark. No wonder he couldn’t spare a thought on the ale.

* * *

“Your Worship! Can I bring you anything?” the barmaid carolled, and Dorian raised eyes in surprise. “Worship”? A staff had always made for a fine scepter, but this wasn’t the best place for it geographically. He had to admit that the Herald had more flair and character than Dorian had initially given him. At the Redcliffe chantry the man had come off as fairly bland, the mark on his hand definitely overshadowing anything else about him. Dorian had barely noticed his introduction, certainly plainer than his own. The name Trevelyan rang a bell, but he hadn’t thought further than that. Then in Haven he’d been perhaps not outright rude, but certainly curt.

“Thank you, Flissa, just some water.” The Herald pulled a chair opposite of Dorian and sat down, his back turned to the rest of the people in the tavern. “I am sorry I didn’t come to see you sooner. Do you think we can talk?”

“Of course we can! It’s usually over a glass of wine for me, but I’ll settle for a… decrepit wooden mug filled with whatever that is. The remains of something unfortunate would be my guess. You were wise to choose water, Your Worship, but I need something stronger.”

“I’ve had my fill of alcohol for the day,” the Herald chuckled. The barmaid approached with a silver jug and two goblets, and the things even had some ornaments on them, like they had been looted from the chantry for the Herald’s sake. She placed the goblets on the table and poured water into one, but when she lifted the jug and moved it over the other, the Herald stopped her. “Please bring some wine for Lord Pavus, Flissa.”

“Hm, so you really don’t want any alcohol, now that it doesn’t have to be this,” Dorian gestured at the ale, determined not to have another sip of it.

“The wine is only slightly better than the ale, I’m afraid.” Flissa brought a decanter and proceeded to fill Dorian’s goblet, nevermind letting him sample the wine first. Once she was gone, Dorian lifted the goblet. “A toast to you, Your Worship, and to the Inquisition.”

He drank carefully, and had to admit to himself that he had had worse wine. Maybe once or twice, after losing a bet.

“Well, it certainly has character. Not as villainous as the ale. But let’s not talk about alcohol anymore, especially since you’re not drinking any, and I’m carrying this burden all by myself.”

“We can talk about magic, that I can take a lot of.” The Herald unfastened a notebook from his belt, spread it open and plunged right in. “That glyph you used, the terror hex, a friend used to practice it but those glyph edges curled differently. The feel for this sort of magic has always eluded me. I tested both earlier today, but it must be too subtle for me. How does it affect the spell compared to this?” he turned a page to an almost identical drawing.

Dorian laughed incredulously.

“We were stranded in time, accompanied by your friends eaten on the inside by red lyrium, with only a flicker of a hope for escape, and you were taking notes on my glyphs? I didn’t think the South had any of those.” The Herald’s expression was between a frown and a pout. He wasn’t a weak mage, for a Southerner, Dorian recalled somewhat belatedly. “Forgive me, it wasn’t meant as an insult. The curve affects the acceleration of the spell. These two glyphs aren’t very different, since the time frame for each is only about ten seconds. Depending on how uneasy the target already is, they could feel about the same. Typically I like to start with something more prolonged and less startling, but we didn’t have time to strategize around creeping unease of impending doom.”

“It might have been all the troubling stuff in my head that got mixed up in the effect then.”

“You cast it on _yourself_?” Dorian exclaimed. “Not enough horror for you in the last few days?”

“Oh, I’m used to it. That friend usually tested them on me. I asked him to, of course. There wasn’t anyone to test on in the Circle.”

“Must have been a delight,” Dorian laughed. “It’s good one gets attacked at every turn here, or I’d be hovering around you, testing my spells.”

“I quite like some of the hexes, actually, and you can do that if you want a more detailed description of the effect,” Trevelyan replied earnestly. “It’s best done early in the morning while my head is still clear. The Redcliffe mages also have quite a few good healers among them, so we can test more than a few times.”

Well, there were spells Dorian wasn’t going to be testing on the Herald, and those were better off brought up sooner rather than later. “Since we are talking frightening magic and all, perhaps I ought to divulge that I’m also a necromancer. It could come as a surprise at a bad moment otherwise.” Trevelyan looked at him more intrigued than alarmed or grossed out.

“You raise corpses? What exactly do you put in them? Spirits?”

“You are taking this better than I had expected. I can raise corpses, yes. It is done with pieces of spirits, wisps at most.”

“Oh,” the Herald muttered, sounding rather disappointed. “So you can’t put a whole spirit inside a corpse? Not even if it’s already in a corpse and you’d only need to move it into another?”

The conversation was taking a turn for the bizarre. Describing necromancy even to some Tevinter mages didn’t usually result in disappointment about the lack of juggling spirits around corpses. He looked at Trevelyan suspiciously, but the man didn’t seem to be joking.

“It is more common for the Nevarran branches of necromancy, but I could research. Or not, because I strongly suspect no book on the subject would have made it to the deep end of Ferelden. Why exactly are you inquiring about moving a spirit from one corpse to another?”

“My horse is dead and possessed. I’d really like to keep it, even if something were to happen to its body.” A hole in the sky obviously made people accept not just a mage as a holy herald, but also said mage riding on the possessed corpse of a horse.

Dorian had forgotten about his drink, he realized. He took a sip and looked at Trevelyan pensively. “I spent some time in Redcliffe observing those mages, and might I say, you’re quite different from them.”

“I didn’t spend the last six months cowering in a village, afraid to use a spell.” Some of that snappiness was back, it seemed. Quite delightful how the Herald got worked up about his mages. “That, and all the time before it. Most of my life has been at least a bit different from theirs. _Yours_ must have been vastly different.”

“I suppose it has. It can’t have been easy, life on the run, hunted all the time. What is going to become of them now? The way they seemed resigned to being indentured or penned in again, do you think they will adjust to being free once they are out from under the Inquisition’s wing?” Southern mages weren’t used to ruling, not even themselves, and the lot in Redcliffe had made that abundantly clear. Yet Trevelyan had declared the alliance, skipping any consultation with the rest of his group. True, Dorian had witnessed him being chastised for it later, but the arrangements hadn’t been changed. He supposed people were quick to fold at the prospect of losing their savior.

“Josephine, Lady Montilyet, seems to think the Inquisition will remain to deal with what we witnessed, and with the Elder One. The danger won’t be over, so maybe the mages can just… stay?”

Dorian laughed. “An optimist! Such a rare breed. Don’t you think an Exalted March would be more probable once you save enough people for them to form an army? I do wonder if you’ve considered what this support of yours will do. For mages in general, I mean. The Inquisition is seen as an authority. You’ve given Southern mages license to… well, be like mages back home.”

“I wouldn’t mind that if they are like you,” Trevelyan startled him. Was he trying to flirt, or simply trying to steer the conversation away from the topic? It was a rather pointless topic to discuss, given all the uncertainty that surrounded them, and Dorian wasn’t opposed to some flirting instead. Trevelyan was… ‘nice’ would be the proper word. Not striking, unless being one of the half a dozen better dressed people in this place qualified one as such. Still, plenty of good simple Southern charm with just enough grain to sustain the interest.

“Hah! There are very few mages like me back home. I don’t fit in, it’s so hard to get blood stains out of clothes!” 

“I didn’t mean _that_. It’s just… you’ve never been taught your magic is a curse, and it shows. As for the alliance,” the Herald shrugged, “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh, there were definitely other choices. You picked the one that’ll shock the children.” So much for the flirting then, they were back to talking politics. “Thing is, the Imperium was once just like the South. Templars, proper Circles, all that rot. Then it changed. By inches. Not that this is reason to oppress us. Still, my homeland should be a cautionary tale, not a source of inspiration.”

“I very much doubt it was anything like here,” Trevelyan said, frown back on his face. “Your so called Circles were still attractive enough for Southern mages to defect to fight on Tevinter’s side in the four Exalted Marches. Besides, history aside, you cannot be here, prepared to stand against your own country, and then claim no Southern mage would stand against the rest of Thedas turning out like it.”

Not just an optimist then, an idealist. The ones in Dorian’s life had sadly gone terribly wrong, but that didn’t mean more weren’t needed.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I approve. Heartily. We averted a future of Alexius’ life going up in flames, and the world together with it, so that’s a good start.”

It truly seemed like a miracle that they had made it out in the nick of time, and that they would remain the only two people to ever have witnessed that terrible future. 

“You said he was a mentor of yours. Was that in… the Circle?” 

“It _is_ still the Circle, you know. In Tevinter they aren’t dismal mage prisons, they are prestigious academies. But no, Alexius didn’t mentor me in the Circle, although we both held positions there. He and his wife did their own research, at their home. I lived there, for a while. He and I used to talk over brandy about the corruption, how we could one day make real change in the Imperium. And then he… gave up. He stopped trying.”

“Does Felix have the blight sickness?” Trevelyan’s question made Dorian stiffen in his chair, the image of Felix in the future coming to haunt him once again. It wouldn’t be long now, alone in Tevinter.

“Yes,” Dorian sighed. “The darkspawn attacked him and his mother on a journey to Hossberg. Livia, that was her name, died. Felix was going to, but we kept coming up with medicine after medicine, spell after spell. We gave Felix years instead of weeks, but it never cured him. Alexius blamed himself for not having been with them. He was convinced he could have protected them, and the guilt tore him up. We… drifted apart eventually.”

Dorian poured himself more wine. He had thought he had all the answers, hadn’t spoken to Alexius again until he had been approached for the Venatori. He hadn’t been able to help in the end. Alexius was likely going to be executed, and Felix would die of the sickness within months at most.

“Where is Felix now? You both disappeared from Redcliffe.”

“I had to take Felix away,” for the first time during their talk Dorian felt some anger. “Lest someone decided holding him at knifepoint would get something more out of Alexius.”

“Le…” Trevelyan stopped immediately after the first sounds had left his mouth. “She already had him at knifepoint, it seemed like the best way to get the amulet.”

“That didn’t make it right. Felix was innocent!” On some level he knew he was being ridiculous, demanding of the Herald the same consideration for Felix’s life that he himself held. There was no saving anyone in that future, any means to get back should have been justifiable.

“Those mages had been innocent once, too.” It came as a murmur, more bitter than anything. “Guess we’ll have to keep Alexius safe from them now, the irony.”

“Alexius isn’t being taken away by the king?”

“No, they are bringing him here, for another questioning at the very least. He doesn’t seem to know all that much about the upper ranks of the Venatori, however.”

“So it will be the Inquisition to judge him?” Some of the hope Dorian had lost when King Alistair had turned up returned. “I wonder if there’s any chance they’ll show him mercy. He hardly deserves it, but for Felix’s sake, I can’t help hoping there’s _something_ left of the man I once knew.”

“I don’t know about judging,” Trevelyan spoke after some consideration. “That wasn’t why I wanted him here, but I meant what I said. If he can be reasoned with.”

“So…” Dorian dreaded voicing the last of his apprehensions. “He’s not being made Tranquil?”

Trevelyan practically jumped in his chair. “This is never going to be used as punishment here!”

The chatter in the tavern stopped, and Dorian could see everyone turning their heads to stare at the two of them. They didn’t speak again until the tavern returned to normal.

“Thank you.” Dorian said at last. “Alexius always hated the Rite of Tranquility. He thought it was proof of the South’s barbarity. Those gifted with magic, so feared that the mundanes destroyed their minds. He called it the worst thing that could be done to anyone.”

“He has a strange way of showing sympathy then. I suppose you don’t have the Rite in Tevinter?”

“Maker’s breath. If I count the Tranquil in Tevinter alone…” Dorian sighed. “It’s a sentence handed down by the Magisterium. ‘Abuse of magic’ has so many convenient interpretations. We do take up the barbaric practices of the South when it pleases us, they are just used differently.”

* * *

Dorian could tell this whole part of the conversation upset the Herald. He probably couldn’t explain to himself why a nation that revered magic would inflict this on its mages, especially with how the Rite of Tranquility tied in with the mage rebellion. Southerners didn’t really understand mages of the Imperium. All they knew was the freedom of mages and the blood mage magisters, as if all mages were equals. True, even the lowliest position would still be a definite improvement over what most of the mages here had, but the system was no less rotten.

He turned the discussion to Tevinter in general and was surprised to discover that Trevelyan knew a fair bit about the theoretical political structure, even if he lacked knowledge of all the fine details that made it what it was.

“There was a plan… at one time, for me to pursue an ambassadorial position in Tevinter. For Ostwick, that’s where I’m from,” Trevelyan clarified. “Well, my mother suggested it almost as a joke, but I did some research back then. And later again, too, though it never amounted to much.”

“Oh,” Dorian tried to recall anything about an Ostwick consulate in Minrathous, with no success. “I imagine that would be a good position?”

“If it were, my mother would have meant it. Ostwick’s politics are mostly about trade, and Tevinter’s goes chiefly through Nevarra and Antiva. The last ambassador of ours to the Imperium ended his term some forty years ago, by being killed in a duel.”

“Ah, yes, we do those. It’s always amusing to hear foreigners’ impressions of it.”

He’d had his first duel as a child in the Circle. Completely unsanctioned, of course, and that had set the tone for his general performance with education in Tevinter. If it hadn’t been for Alexius, he wouldn’t even have had those few years of actually enjoying his studies and having them acknowledged. Now Alexius was barely recognizable, and Dorian wondered for the first time what life in the past two years must have been like for Felix. _There are worse things than dying, Dorian._ He hadn’t meant the slow corruption by the blight. He had watched another kind of corruption, and known all of it had been in his name.

“Dorian?” Trevelyan’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he reached for the decanter, only to find it empty. Trevelyan must have followed his movement, because he pushed his away from the table. “Are you going to join the other mages?”

“Of course, every bit to get this hole in the Veil closed.”

“I meant the camp. There are some tents…”

“What are my options?” Dorian leaned back and raised an eyebrow. 

“There is a free cabin, if you’d like it.”

“A cabin I shall most graciously accept. I actually camped in the Hinterlands before Redcliffe. Me, camping, can you imagine?” Dorian huffed dramatically and lifted himself from the table.

* * *

“There is something I’d like you to see first, actually,” Trevelyan had stopped in front of a house. “Unless you are too tired for today.”

Since Dorian had done nothing but drink for the whole afternoon, he hadn’t had the opportunity to tire of anything. Least of all the Herald of Andraste. He was a bit woozy, but hopefully he could handle whatever it was he was about to have a look at. He wasn’t expecting the possessed horse to reside in a cabin. They entered into a disgustingly homely room, the only redeeming qualities of which a well tended to fire and a whole lot of books covering the bed. With surprise Dorian recognized Tevene on the visible covers.

“These are from Redcliffe,” Trevelyan explained. “We took whatever the Venatori had brought.” Some of those books were very probably entirely unsavory for Southern eyes. He wondered if Trevelyan wanted him to look through them for blood magic or something of the sort. The Herald ignored the books, however, and moved to the small rack, pulling a metal box that was sitting on top of it. He removed a ward from the box, and unlocked it with a key he pulled out from his pocket.

“You should have this. It’s too theoretical for me to understand, so I skimmed over most of it.” He handed him a small notebook. From the first page Dorian could tell that was Alexius’ writing, and he lifted his head to look at Trevelyan questioningly.

“I could read it a bit. It’s from Redcliffe, the one in the future. If there is anything new for you to learn from it, please do so.” Then he pulled from the box the last thing Dorian had expected to see again, Alexius’ amulet, and held it up, the green crystal swinging from his outstretched hand. Dorian took it without a word, still stunned by the events unfolding.

“I’ll show you to your house,” Trevelyan said, putting the box back in its place. “You can pick some reading if you want,” he pointed at the books on the bed.

Dorian snapped Alexius’ diary shut. “I have all the reading I need for tonight, but why are you giving me this?”

“You were his student, and you helped him develop time magic. You also successfully used it to get us back. If we fail to close the Breach and I die, time magic could give us more chances until we get it right. I would rather entrust this to you rather than to Alexius, but if you need to consult him, you can do so once he arrives.”

It was a plan, and an extremely unsettling one at that. Nothing like attempting wildly unstable magic again, wading through time to tell the Herald of Andraste what had killed him during the latest performance of his death. The man probably wouldn’t hesitate to ask for Dorian to raise his corpse, if he thought that would work as well. Dorian wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this.

“Do you expect to die? At least on your first try?”

Trevelyan shrugged. “We are going to channel Fade energy from more than two hundred lyrium-supplied mages through me. Not even Solas seems to know what this could do to both my body and to my mind. He is the only one in on the plan, by the way, so keep it under wraps. Supposedly people have higher morale with a single miraculous chance rather than with however many tries helped by time magic.”

That sounded about right, and the plan was sound, even if most assuredly not safe. Then again, they had seen the alternative, and how much worse than that could it get? Since Trevelyan wasn’t asking him to punch a hole in time now and get them to Redcliffe to prevent Alexius from ever taking over, it was indeed to be of last resort. If they succeeded, the Breach would be gone, and time magic would once again become impossible. Whatever mistake Alexius believed the Herald to be, the mark had fallen into good hands.

“Did you know we believe Andraste was a mage?” Trevelyan looked at him in surprise, then laughed softly.

“Well, that explains a lot about the Imperium. Our Andraste fought against mages. Postulate one, magic is a corrupting influence in the world.” He intoned the last words in a monotonous voice.

“Oh, she did fight against mages. In Tevinter mages fight mages all the time. What I meant to say is that I believe in you. That the Maker sent you, whether through Andraste or fate.”

“You don’t seem like the religious sort, to be honest.”

“If you define ‘religious’ as sitting in a chantry and listening to a blithering hen tell you how to live, then no. The Maker doesn’t need me to believe, but I do. The thought of no one at all watching out for us is too frightening.”

“The Maker I know of is gone,” Trevelyan’s smile was gone as well. “And if he’s not, and he’s watching out for anything, then he’s not on my side. But of course we are letting all these people believe, if they wish to.” The harshness in his voice turned to resignation. “Whatever it takes.”

Dorian felt he’d made the wrong move once again. He knew what it was like to be condemned by family and society, but Trevelyan had the condemnation of the Maker as well, or at least that’s what he’d been taught all his life. And now he had been thrown in the middle of the Inquisition, which, however heretical at the moment, was without a shadow of doubt going to be recognized as the Maker’s work, if successful. Should the Herald of Andraste die closing the Breach, he would be remembered as one of the faithful, maybe not even as a mage.

“Would you have me call you something else, if you don’t care for the religious aspect? Enchanter, Trevelyan?”

“If ‘Herald’ gives you any comfort, feel free to use it. I don’t believe, but I’ve since seen what faith did for Leliana.” Trevelyan shrugged. “Otherwise you could just call me Ray.”

“Is that what others call you?”

“Sera calls me ‘arse’ occasionally,” Trevelyan helpfully supplied. “It’s the least colorful of her insults, I don’t know whether I should be offended.”

* * *

Trevelyan led him to another cabin, not twenty paces away from his own, and swung the door open.

“It was meant for Sera, but she’s not using it.” 

The very first step he took resulted in a muffled crunch. Trevelyan stopped in his tracks and in the next moment a small wisp illuminated the inside of the cabin.

“Ah.”

Nothing followed the single toneless syllable, so Dorian moved to the doorstep and peeked into the room. He had to lean down quite a bit to properly recognize what it was that lay scattered all over the floor.

“Bees? Is this another Southern thing, a house-warming gift?” It wasn’t just bees, they were scorched bees. Someone had gotten something warming at least, that was for sure.

“It’s a Sera thing, and it means she is mad at me,” Trevelyan ran a hand through his hair. “I never thought of how she’d take it, and I haven’t seen her around since I returned.”

With a quick cast he swiped most of the insects from the middle of the room into a pile and stepped further in. Dorian followed, still rather perplexed by the sort of message to leave for someone and the person who had left it. At least the bees hadn’t been alive… well, hopefully there weren’t any of those left, if he was to stay in this room.

“The place doesn’t look lived in, so the bees were probably just here for me to discover,” Trevelyan sighed and started adding more bees to the pile with an unhappy look on his face.

The room was as charmingly rustic as anything in the South, smaller than Ray’s cabin, but still more or less adequate. At least compared to a tent pitched in the snow. Dorian lit a fire in the fireplace, the neatly stacked wood crackling within seconds.

“How did you offend this Lady Sera to lose her favor so dramatically?”

A short laughter burst from Trevelyan’s lips.

“That’s really not how I would word it. Just too many mages for her taste.”

“And what exactly does she have against mages?”

“Arrows,” Trevelyan said, deadpan. “It’s not going to come to that,” he hurriedly added. “She’s just afraid, she’ll stay away. Unless she has already left, I suppose. I have to go look for her, are you going to be all right here, with the bees and all? Oh, and we were going to leave for Kinloch Hold tomorrow, to see how it is. You can come with us, or you can stay here if you’d rather talk to Alexius as soon as possible.”

Dorian flipped through the diary absentmindedly, wondering whether he could comprehend in a few days what Alexius had worked on for months. He had also failed, of course, so it might not be that much.

“I’ll see how it goes, and will let you know before the day is out.” He had also meant to visit the Breach, but it was clear now that Trevelyan wouldn’t be accompanying him there, and going by himself would probably mean going with a squad of Southern templars.

“Right,” Trevelyan eyed the bees one last time, “I’ll see you at dinner then.”

The door was already shut behind him, too late for Dorian to ask about where and when dinner was, or where a bath could be had. He would really need to find someone to ask about how to live here, probably Lady Montilyet. Or whoever was supposed to be watching him.


	16. Chapter 16

_13 Harvestmere, 9:41_

Varric was was somewhat grateful for the long day of riding through Reinesfere to Gherlen’s Pass, and even more so that they wouldn’t be continuing on that road to pass by Orzammar’s gates. He had seen more of Orzammar’s scenery in the last couple of weeks than he ever had in his whole life until then. Not that much spoke in favor of Kinloch Hold, but at least it wasn’t fully dwarven-made, only somewhat so. The fortress had been built mainly by the Avvar, perhaps ten ages ago or even longer than that. It had been impregnable until Tevinter had come, and had been abandoned soon after they had been through it. The last thing Varric had needed to hear from Cullen about interesting local lore was that there had been such a massacre inside of it on the day the Imperium had conquered it, that for centuries it had stood there empty, thought to be cursed and haunted. Orzammar dwarves to the left, haunted places to the right, this hit a bit too close to home. Perhaps he should have stayed in Haven.

They were on their last rest for the horses, not more than two hours away from the city, with all the Inquisition soldiers gradually left behind to help in the villages along the road. The exhaustion from the day’s journey had led everyone to the peak of their amicability, unwilling to glare daggers or pointedly ignore each other. It shouldn’t have surprised Varric that Cassandra had come with them. Until the Breach had been closed, she wasn’t going to stray from the Herald’s side. Her improved disposition towards Trevelyan was what was more surprising, as she had shifted most of the argumentative back and forth toward the newly joined Tevinter mage. Dorian Pavus had gone straight for the jugular, taunting her about the Seekers and their failures. Now Cassandra appeared more sad and pensive than anything, staring at the expanse of the lake.

Behind the mockery Dorian was still somewhat jittery. Varric couldn’t blame him, Tevinter wasn’t on people’s good side after Redcliffe, if it had ever been. It made sense for him to stick close to Trevelyan, since the two obviously got along well enough. More than that, he had the Herald’s trust, having saved the day during their trip through the future. Varric had tried to get more on what the future had been like and what exactly had happened in it, without much success. Trevelyan would share whatever Varric wanted to know about the red lyrium that had been growing from people and walls, but little beyond that. A demon army taking over Orlais with the empress assassinated was about as detailed as the story got. Everybody had things they’d rather not talk about, so instead of earning himself some stern looks, Varric had decided to add Redcliffe to the Herald’s list.

Come to think of it, Trevelyan was the only one who had kept his good mood throughout the day so far, maybe even cheered up further as the hours had gone by. It could have been a result of finally being able to relax on horseback, the horse in question apparently not caring if its rider spent some time close to dozing off. While the other horses were grazing, the Herald was covering up his with a full caparison, in preparation for entering a city where people hadn’t recently been subjected to seeing all sorts of horrors. Both him and Sera laughed when he tried to hide at least part of the rusted blade with a cheerful feather plume.

“Is like some poncy undead nob. You better ditch that cause it makes it even weirder.” They weren’t going to make it to an inn before nightfall, so the horse wouldn’t be such a great issue. It was getting famous by itself now, too, so people would give it some leeway before putting it to the torch.

Sera had given Trevelyan the cold shoulder until midday, keeping close to Blackwall. Blackwall had been the same boring himself as always, that stoic ‘I’m here to defend you whenever needed’ expression never leaving his face, so safe enough. Then, during their slightly longer lunch break she had joined the two mages, who were pouring over some book. Sitting between her and Dorian, the Herald had played some bizarre mediator role, and admittedly played it rather well. Sera had taken to striking bargains with mages, it seemed, about what was permitted that mages do. By the end of the break she and Dorian had been throwing good-natured insults at each other, a game Trevelyan had never won once against Sera.

“I thought teyrn was your king!” She had snapped at Trevelyan, Dorian smirking after having won the round. “It’s not a proper game of ‘Your people are shit’ if everyone has the same shit people!”

“I’m sure he’d rather be king,” the Herald had snickered. “Telling people that the title is older than Ferelden must get all sorts of annoying. Shouldn’t you have known about teyrns anyway, you’re from Ferelden after all.”

“That was ages ago, ten years ago!” Sera had scoffed. “Even the nobs were to be pitied after the Blight, so I went to Orlais.”

* * *

The horses weren’t up for much effort for the last few miles and the party just let them walk. A few wisps were called upon when the dusk turned into darkness proper. Fereldan brigands were apparently smarter than their Kirkwall counterparts, since nobody attempted an ambush, whether it was the wisps or the people they illuminated holding them back.

“That tower we’re going to tomorrow, you gonna shove the mages up there after they’re done?” Obviously Sera had now hit her limit at four mages, but that wasn’t the type of bargaining Trevelyan would be open to.

“No, there won’t be any shoving. But there might be little choice regardless.” The Herald sighed. “Haven is already cold enough, it will only get colder.”

“Curly said the place was solid,” Varric supplied. If a little scary, but that was Cullen’s story.

“Do you know Cullen back from Kirkwall, Varric?” Trevelyan pointedly stressed the Commander’s name.

“That’s where we met. He’s the only sane templar to come out of there.” 

“Sane?” Trevelyan sneered. “Hit two sticks together and shout ‘abomination’, see what remains of ‘sane’ then. If the rest of them were worse, then Kirkwall shouldn’t make anyone wonder.”

“Your Commander does the whole scowling at mages thing rather well,” Dorian chipped in. “I imagine it’s part of the job description.”

“Isn’t his job anymore, though he seems to have trouble remembering that.” Varric wasn’t sure why Trevelyan was giving _him_ the look, but luckily Cassandra decided to intervene into what was clearly more of her jurisdiction. 

“I recruited Commander Cullen because he’s good at rallying his people. To help, not against mages,” the Seeker hit every syllable. “He’s doing his best, and he has gotten far.”

“Mages do their best at the Harrowing too, it isn’t often good enough.” Varric wished he had never gotten involved in one of these conversations again, he’d heard them all before, a lot. Or maybe he ought to be taking comfort in the familiar feel of it all. 

“I told you I’d remember,” Cassandra’s voice sounded softer and more tired all of the sudden. “They are our allies.”

“Yay, freedom. Great for them. Over there. Away from me.” Sera’s annoyed mutter faded as she pulled on the reins of her horse and rode to the front to rejoin Blackwall. Way to stir the pot, Buttercup. For all her fear of magic she sure was quick getting to mages and giving them a piece of her mind.

“So,” Varric turned to Trevelyan, determined to fix some of the damage done, “what does all of this mean for your mages back in Ostwick? The mage rebellion joining the Inquisition was probably not what anyone had expected.”

“ _I_ hadn’t expected it, at least not like that,” he shrugged. “But perhaps it’s for the best. They are with us now, not with Ferelden. Back home it means that we finally have some leverage for arguing our terms without needing another war.”

* * *

_14 Harvestmere, 9:41_

“You know, I don’t think dwarves were meant to traverse bodies of water wider than a puddle in Lowtown.” The three hours on this boat had felt only marginally better than crossing the Waking Sea. He didn’t know why he’d hoped for another decent ship, but he had been disappointed to see none at the docks. They had gotten a large flat cargo boat instead, which wasn’t built for comfort. As placid as the lake was, every movement of the water could be felt when you were standing that close to it. The former mage tower was visible in the distance, but it wouldn’t be less than an hour to reach it still. The boatman at least seemed to think they wouldn’t need to circle a lot with the wind.

Maybe he should have stayed in Haven indeed. For all the snow and cold, Haven was pleasantly stable on the ground. At least he wasn’t alone in his suffering. “You doing all right there, Sparkler?”

“It wasn’t the wine,” Dorian groaned. He was lying on his back on the deck, staring at the sky. “I should have had some wine if I was going to be sick anyway. Why is this lake like a sea?”

“Every bit of nature in Ferelden is determined to impress. Something must, I suppose.” Another groan escaped the mage. “Not the best place for a pampered noble from Tevinter. Then again _I’m_ also from the city. So is Sera, for that matter. The only one who seems to enjoy the prolonged wandering is our Herald.”

“Nobody is perfect,” Dorian sat up, face still slightly ashen. “Say, Varric, what’s the deal with this red lyrium that keeps cropping up everywhere? Can a mage access its power?”

“Don’t go there, Sparkler. Don’t wonder if it’s useful. Don’t even think about it.” There went all hope that the conversations between Trevelyan and the Tevinter mage would stay somewhat normal. The two actually appeared to be a fairly even match, very far from the usual business of Solas talking and Trevelyan listening to him enraptured.

* * *

“I wonder why they didn’t use the fortress,” Trevelyan murmured when the boat drew close to the shore. “It’s defensible, you’d need a fleet for an assault.”

The pillars of a long destroyed bridge were the only trace of link to the land, and Kinloch Hold was barely any smaller than the island it was on, there would be no room to place trebuchets. Varric could see where Trevelyan was coming from. Even besieging until starvation would take quite a while unless the besieging army managed to kill all the fish in the lake while at it.

“Well, it looks very grim and the windows are nine parts blocked off. Most of the Gallows mages fled as well, guess nobody liked the place enough to take over it.”

“Most of the Redcliffe mages aren’t from Kinloch Hold,” the Herald didn’t seem convinced of Varric’s arguments. “The place has a history, but it’s not theirs. Leliana did say that after the Blight a new place for the mages was planned and this one nearly abandoned. Of course, there were more important things to rebuild, so it never happened, but well,” he sighed, “after the uprising and near annulment here, not that many were brought to the Circle. Their Majesties had a laxer policy on apostates, and the population was hiding them better as well.”

The boat finally docked and they stepped on firm ground again, Sera the last to follow.

“This place is unnerving,” Blackwall halted after a few steps. “Could it really be haunted?”

It certainly had a presence that didn’t feel wholly unfamiliar to Varric. Whether it was haunted remained to be seen, based on how many chairs and tables were floating in the air. Rather than sharing the rest of the rest of the party’s wary attitude, Dorian laughed and winked at Trevelyan.

“You are actually enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Well, they are really well done,” the other mage chuckled then turned to the rest of them. “Those are wards, to fend off the curious. There are some more at the entrance as well.”

The wards at the entrance turned out to be nothing like the vague hum of unease that permeated the ground around the fortress. Cassandra finally gave up trying to keep a calm face walking though all of this crap and activated an aura that seemed to remove most of the horror around them. Trevelyan had already walked further ahead and was fiddling with a chain of keys, unlocking the padlocks that kept the doors barred even to those who wouldn’t mind wading through magic spells. He put his weight against the door, then stood in front of it, as did Dorian, casting, but the wings barely budged. Only when Cassandra and Blackwall joined to help could they walk into the dark insides. A few seconds later the familiar wisps floated up.

“Well, that’s not much better than the wards, certainly not for mages,” Dorian scoffed. “Now we know why they don’t want to be here.”

“Ooh,” Sera drawled as she walked past him. “Let me guess,” she lowered her voice and whispered, “the Veil is stale here.”

Varric could never quite tell how much Sera actually felt these things. That she was doing it to mock even an absent Solas was a certainty, but Solas himself sometimes seemed to catch her more aware of ‘magey’ things than it was to Sera’s own liking. At least whatever the Veil here was, it wasn’t affecting a dwarf, or even Cassandra and Blackwall. Varric remembered the overwhelming feeling of wrong at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and he didn’t want any more of it.

“I’d never been to another Circle before,” Trevelyan’s voice was strained even if his steps remained even. “When one of those who returned from the White Spire told us of the thin Veil there, I don’t think we quite knew what to imagine. Perhaps something like this here, perhaps worse.”

“Ostwick Circle was nothing like this?” Cassandra asked as she pushed another door open, this one letting them pass without much resistance. They found themselves in a wide corridor with a few doors to their right.

“Ostwick Circle was quite young, and has always been very small. A lot fewer have died there.” He pushed the first door open. “Apprentice quarters. Let’s just see what we could use. Housing the mages here is only a little better than dropping them right underneath the Breach.”

The hall stretched a long way before them, the curve of the walls barely noticeable behind the line of narrow writing tables and wardrobes. Dozens of bunk beds stood in groups of two or four with only a few knocked over. The bedding was missing from most of them. The mages hadn’t left in such a hurry that they couldn’t take anything, and at least there were no huge blood stains on the floor.

The next two halls they passed through looked just like the first one. Not much that could be carried away unless the mages wanted some furniture for their tents. Much to Varric’s relief the furniture had not made any attempts to move so far, but the place was no less spooky, all grey and abandoned. He looked up to follow a thin ray of light that had slipped through and saw the plaster on the ceiling, crumbled here and there, some of the decoration still remaining. The light was seeping through two slivers that had been left open at the top of the window, the rest all grey wall.

“Did you grow up like this,” Blackwall asked Trevelyan, sounding extremely uncomfortable. “That friend of yours in Redcliffe made it sound like you had a better life with your birth.”

“Oh, I had a luxury corner together with another noble. Had its own partition and all. Could have done better with all the money my mother poured into the Chantry, but, oh well,” Trevelyan smirked derisively. “I did get my very own room after the Harrowing, might have gotten a door too, one day.”

“The Chantry…” Cassandra began but didn’t get far as Trevelyan snapped at her.

“Fuck your Chantry!” Dorian lifted an eyebrow together with the corner of his mouth at the outburst. Whether the place was making Trevelyan more irritated or simply more confident was hard to tell. “The healers and Tranquil didn’t live any better for all the gold they brought in.”

The Seeker’s face was a storm cloud now, but she didn’t speak up again.

“But don’t worry,” Trevelyan continued. “Things will get a lot more spacious once we move to the mage quarters. Plenty don’t make it there.”

* * *

The apprentice library wasn’t in the state of devastation Trevelyan had feared it to be, but the shelves were mostly empty. There had been more than a few fires here, none obliterating everything. Countered with ice spells, Dorian presumed.

“The Hero of Ferelden, lovely!” The Tevinter mage exclaimed, standing a few steps away in front of a large portrait. Varric hadn’t paid attention to much else other than the flight of stairs that led up from the circular room housing the library indices. Of course a tower would be completely vertical.

He approached slowly while Trevelyan nearly ran toward the two of them.

“Aileas Amell. Hero of Ferelden, Savior of Kinloch Hold, Star Student of First Enchanter Irving.” Varric read the inscription. “That’s a lot glory to carry.”

He had seen a few different images of the Hero of Ferelden. A few had been obviously copied from the painting that hung here, and it was probably the most truthful one.

“I always thought she’d look more like Hawke in reality. They share a grandmother, did you know that? Though Hawke has more Ferelden in him.” He hummed. “She really looks more like you, Sparkler.”

“Her father was Antivan, I checked the nobility trees at home. They already had one child in the Gallows, but the records stop there.” Trevelyan spoke, eyes on the portrait. By the looks of it, he’d be offering his hand in marriage, if he could. Probably even the one marked by Andraste. “It is strange how the Marcher became Hero of Ferelden, and the Fereldan - Champion of Kirkwall. Still, what a family legacy. ”

“Hawke said all five siblings were mages, and that the Circles had taken them. Something he had heard from his mother.” Varric wasn’t sure whether Hawke had ever managed to find out anything more about them, and about Aileas Amell. Maybe he’d never tried, with Anders around. Blondie had always had that weird half-adoration, half-fear where the Hero of Ferelden was concerned, though how he had come to leave the Wardens was a story Varric had never managed to hear.

“Why is she carrying a sword if she’s a mage?” Blackwall had made it to them as well, expression only slightly less enamored than Trevelyan’s. “But, by the Maker, what a woman!”

“Dirth’ena Enasalin,” Trevelyan said, and turned to frown at Sera, who had just hit him on the back.

“Sorry, thought you choked there,” the elf rolled her eyes and looked at the painting in turn. “Not bad, I guess. Too much armor.”

“That’s what Dirth’ena Enasalin is,” Trevelyan said. “I thought it was just something the painter put there next to the staff, when I first saw a copy of this years ago. But I saw some of it in the Fade as well, and asked Solas. It’s an ancient elven technique… even he didn’t know how someone like Amell had come to learn it.”

“Blah blah, wanna bet whether you turn elfy or get your head crammed in the Fade first?” Sera stuck out her lower lip and crossed arms defiantly. “She’s a hero. Pretty face, boring eyes, whatever.”

“Not the impression I got,” Dorian said all of the sudden.

“Those are _most_ definitely not her eyes,” Cassandra agreed from the back, and Trevelyan turned around to look at the two wide-eyed. 

“You know her? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t know her,” Dorian shrugged. “I’ve seen her a few times at the library of Minrathous. She was less imposing without all this metal stuck to her, but her eyes were not boring. Your artist must have copied them from an icon of Andraste or something like that.”

“The Imperium?” Trevelyan looked at Dorian even more incredulously. “What was she doing there?”

“Looking through books, as you might imagine. She’s not unknown in Tevinter. It seems some people will always need a blood mage hero, even if only to envy.” Dorian rubbed his chin pensively. “Then again from what I gather Wardens are allowed to, if it is to stop a Blight, and that she did. I don’t suppose Orzammar and Ferelden are too fond of keeping the blood magic part of all this in their history, lest one starts doubting the kings she raised up.” 

“So…” Trevelyan began, eyes shifting between Dorian and Cassandra, “when she disappeared after the Blight, she went to Tevinter?”

“She didn’t disappear until she was needed!” Cassandra focused her eyes at Varric, full of fury. He lifted his hands helplessly, congratulating himself on a part well acted. Not that much was needed for that. Hawke hadn’t replied to any of his letters since the Conclave, and at least one should have made its way to him by now, wherever he might be. “Anyway, I do not know her. The Divine called her once to ask for her opinion on the mage problem, and… well, that’s pretty much it. Amell just…” the Seeker sighed, face even darker than before. “That’s enough of her.”

“All of that was true…” Trevelyan muttered. “There we so many rumors at the time, they wouldn’t stop even at the Circle, and that’s not quite the place to debate blood magic.”

“Nobody had ended a Blight as quickly as she did,” Blackwall said tersely, and nobody had much to argue about that.

They finally left the portrait and made it to the forsaken stairs. Not only was the tower vertical, it had entirely unnecessarily tall ceilings.

* * *

Like Trevelyan had predicted the living conditions, or remains thereof, got better on the second floor. The halls were smaller and partitions separated each mage’s space. Some things were still profoundly awkward, like the bathtubs that were out in plain sight. Same as before only a few books were left lying around the shelves, with even the first enchanter’s study mostly cleared out of anything of value. The last three floors were almost entirely a waste of time, as far as mage supplies went. Still, on the fourth floor, where the templar quarters had been, there was a good bit of steel to take, should the Inquisition have need for it.

The small hall on the last floor surprised them, in the most unpleasant of ways. It was positively crawling with demons, and not weak ones either. In the middle a rift cracked open and spewed some more demons just to make things even worse. On the bright side, the demons already in the room were just as hostile to the new arrivals as they were to the party. Varric had never been through a longer fight to close a rift, even the one at the temple had been over sooner. Not that closing the rift was exactly a priority, if what was coming out of it could keep some of the stronger demons occupied while Cassandra and Blackwall kept a choke point at the door.

“I thought the only rift not out in the open was the one Alexius created,” Cassandra frowned once the rift had been closed and the place had grown quiet again, free of the horrendous screeching.

“The Veil might have been close to tearing even before the Breach,” Trevelyan replied, his voice thick. “This is the Harrowing chamber. Plenty have died here.”

“What, just kill them?” Sera’s jaw dropped. “Why?”

“Because they can,” Trevelyan’s tone turned acidic. “The Chantry wants the strongest for war, the good healers for the nobles and the Tranquil for making money. Anyone else is a liability they’d rather not deal with.”

Dorian approached the pedestal in the center of the room, where the rift had been.

“I had heard of the Harrowings in the south. More strenuous than the ones back home, or so they say.” He didn’t look as unperturbed as his voice sounded. “This is almost like an altar. Good to know someone is carrying that torch after the Circles in Tevinter appropriated the temples of the Old Gods.”

The Herald was almost out of the cursed room when he turned to Dorian.

“You have Harrowings in Tevinter?”

“Those who can afford to study at the Circles do. It’s a prestige thing, although getting comfortable dealing with demons in the Fade is no small benefit if you decide to keep doing it.”

“Keep doing it?” Trevelyan echoed. “And the ones who fail?”

“They don’t die, unless they are determined to kill themselves out of shame.” The mage shrugged. “More lyrium wasted on driving the spirit away, but if you’re in the Circle, someone is paying. Now let’s get out of here, shall we?”

* * *

“Can this place ever get better? Livable?” Blackwall’s voice cut the silence as they were descending the last few staircases to the ground floor.

“Not anytime soon for mages,” Dorian replied. He and Blackwall had bickered some on the way from Haven, but not now. “The Veil does repair itself over time, though not so much if there has been a lot of death in one place. Even small tears can get closed. Obviously it is of tremendous help if people stop getting killed in the same damn spot. We could all do with fewer despair and fear demons.”

As these things went, the last place to explore was also the worst, though not exactly for the presence of stairs. The ones that led down into the basement would need to be walked up, eventually, but Varric was pretty sure that when the time for doing so came, he would gladly oblige. The first few chambers were veritable treasure groves for Trevelyan. It seemed leaving the tower at relative leisure had allowed someone responsible to store some of the books behind better guarded doors. Then, unfortunately, they walked upon the first couple of gibbets.

“Oh, you think we should get one for Vivienne?” Trevelyan joked. Hopefully joked. “She seems to think mages are in danger of gibbets outside of the towers, maybe she’ll appreciate a present from the liberal Kinloch Hold.”

“Were these being used?” Cassandra’s voice was incredulous, and just a little bit shaky.

“I don’t know,” shrugged Trevelyan. “Hopefully not in the last few years. They wouldn’t be here if they’d never been used.”

“Who is this Vivienne?” Dorian inquired. “Was she at dinner with us before we left?”

“She’s eating her own food alone now,” Sera cackled. “There was a rumor and now she will never know whether or not the servants are spitting in her food.” She illustrated her point by spitting on the floor, too.

“Whose idea?” The Herald’s lips twitched even as he shook his head.

“Varri—MINE!”

Varric had gotten along reasonably well with Madame Vivienne for a few days, although he’d failed getting anything interesting out of her. Somewhere along the way she’d made it clear that she didn’t think much of him, accompanied by the odd disparaging remark here and there. Since Sera was already at more or less open war with her, he hadn’t been averse to giving the elf some ideas.

“She’s Court Enchanter of Orlais,” Trevelyan turned to Dorian. “Wants the Circles back. And _wants_ the Circles. Very keen on deciding her own fate and on denying the same to everybody else.”

“She is ambitious,” conceded Cassandra. “But has always shown sense in her dealings with the Chantry. Perhaps you could patch up things with her and have her contribute something?”

“I don’t suppose you’ll ever drop it with the Chantry,” Trevelyan sighed, with a fair bit of exasperation. “Vivienne can contribute her connections, but not her fearmongering. And I’ll make sure she’ll never be the voice of mages in the Inquisition, so no, I have no intention of patching up anything with her.”

Varric found himself sadly fulfilling the role Madame de Fer thought he had in the Inquisition, which was to annoy Cassandra. The Seeker seemed to have fallen to some tremendous inner turmoil of picking between wringing Trevelyan’s neck and trying to be nice to him, and after a few more minutes of sticking together, the party split into small groups. Likely prompted by the importance of the Court Enchanter’s connections, Sera and Blackwall finally found something to disagree on, which happened to be the benefits of keeping on the good side of nobles. They still agreed on hating their guts though, so that wasn’t anywhere near the level of Cassandra and Trevelyan disagreeing. The Herald himself was walking with Dorian, checking on books and occasionally even laughing.

They went pass the tower’s prisoner cells, and Varric was reminded of Anders again. There simply was too much of him in this place. Not that Darktown had been any more luxurious than this prison, but at least there hadn’t been shackles hanging from the ceiling in the clinic. Or bones strewn across the floor. Made sense that there wouldn’t be funerals for these people.

* * *

“Look at that, a Tevinter statue!” Dorian was walking around the shelves and tables in room at the end of the hallway, one that looked like an actual storeroom rather than hastily stacked up books. “Something rather odd about it too. Still, nice quaint place, like a little shop of rarities in a backstreet of Minrathous! Without the blood magic, I suppose.”

“You’d be wrong,” Trevelyan handed him a book. “Though I wonder why they had it, I’ve never seen one in Ostwick. Having magic that templar skills are useless against is not welcomed in the Circle.”

“We are not bringing books on blood magic to Haven!” Varric had to admit that Cassandra had that right. He wasn’t keen on reliving Kirkwall.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Trevelyan said, airily. “That one is also in Common, so it’s likely not very trustworthy either. Whoever left it behind when going against templars obviously didn’t think highly of it.”

Books on blood magic aside, the trip had turned out both better and worse than expected. There was more of value left in the tower than Trevelyan had hoped for, but the tower itself was likely some very distant last resort for the mages, if even that. They would need either a lot of thick clothes, or someplace else to stay, and there weren’t many of either. Ostwick couldn’t take in more than fifty or sixty, and nobody had any idea what Ostagar was looking like. Carver had always described the place as huge, but it had also been where the darkspawn horde had passed through, and those places didn’t tend to look very cheerful or support life well.

“You’ve been way too forgiving today, Seeker.” Varric approached Cassandra at the bow of the boat after the two mages and Sera had fallen asleep. “I will never accuse you of having sympathy, but is the danger to his life greater than you’ve made us think to be, or was it the lovely tower?”

“I’m not stupid, Varric.” She huffed in her no-nonsense voice. “No rich noble has had their life improved by being put in the Circle, his feelings on the matter are hardly surprising.”

Trevelyan had been in there for far too long for these to be all of his feelings on the matter, and Cassandra no doubt knew that just as well. The man hadn’t made any secret of it.

“I refuse to believe that the Maker would send him just to take him away.” True, that wouldn’t be very practical, considering the reports of rifts as far as Antiva. “I just wish he’d be less… stubborn.”

Varric barely managed to keep a straight face, not that it would have mattered in the dim moonlight. The Maker would probably deny everything if Cassandra ever got to question Him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a weird feeling replaying DA:O magi origin to look at Kinloch Hold again. It's pretty dreadful, but has somehow become one of those better places by the time of the DA:I narrative.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to get chapters back to mid-week instead of the end of it, enjoy :)

_17 Harvestmere, 9:41_

“Tell Vivienne, even if this were a Circle, I would not be required to answer to her!” Cullen could feel the sharp wind whipping against his face, feeling colder than it actually was.

“I, ahm…” the skinny servant stuttered and took a step back. This was far from the first time she’d walked between him and the chantry to relay increasingly irritated messages, at least on his part.

“Oh, never mind. I’ll handle it.” The elf scurried away, slipping between the soldiers, who were more likely to hit her than swing a sword correctly. Or maybe not, as one of them shrieked, barely dodging. “Use that shield! If that were a real battle, you’d be dead!”

He slumped back and wiped his face, the leather glove only smearing the sweat. His skin had been getting clammy again. Knowing that he couldn’t do much if things went wrong was getting to him, especially since now things could go really wrong at any time. It wasn’t the posturing Vivienne thought this to be. If anyone was posturing, it was the Herald, who had picked his bird cage and a book, and more or less moved into the magi camp once the last of them had arrived two days ago.

“Cullen?” Cassandra’s voice nearly made him jump, coming at the very moment he had thought of going to her. He couldn’t really smell the lyrium, but every time he passed one of his templars or got within fifty paces of Adan’s cabin, it sure felt like he could. Perhaps his people had upped the dosage once the lyrium had arrived from Orzammar, or once the mages had arrived.

“You should rest,” her eyes narrowed, measuring him. “Or you should talk to him.”

Easier said than done, that. After just one failure of a conversation the Herald had gone back to his well-practiced skill of pretending Cullen and his people didn’t exist. It wasn’t as if two dozens templars could reasonably well watch over more than three hundred mages, but any assistance had been refused nevertheless.

“Is he around?”

By now it was even harder to take in Haven with just one look. People had spread out in between small hills and groves, tents pitched wherever there was even ground and, ideally, cover from the wind. The mages were easy enough to find, the previously lone hill now a second settlement, as large as Haven itself. Instead of a wooden fence, a tall ice wall was towering to the west, blocking the wind, and the air swiveled from the heat of fires.

“He’s with Cremisius Aclassi. Bull’s lieutenant has offered to train the mages to fight together with soldiers.” Cassandra pulled away to let a soldier stagger after a hit and Cullen followed her away from the training grounds. “Of course, he passed by me first, to snark on my attitude,” the Seeker added dryly. “For what that’s worth, he _will_ make the mages more independent, and very likely a lot more demanding as well. The question is what will happen once the Breach is closed.”

“I’ll be a lot less worried once the Breach is closed,” Cullen muttered. “Vivienne wants me to train men from the rank and file as templars. She has been at it for two days now.”

“It is hard to disagree with the need for some more, but these men are barely trained as soldiers. Templar training on the quick is hardly a solution,” Cassandra noted.

“And they didn’t sign up for this!” Cullen sighed. They didn’t even have a reliable source of lyrium, were some of the soldiers to actually want it. “I had hope that more of the templars would join us, but now… Maker knows what has happened with them. This Elder One that compromised the mages is also likely responsible for the templars’ disappearance. Perhaps the Order will see reason once the Breach is closed, be receptive to an alliance. The rifts will remain, the Chantry won’t be able to just brush off the Inquisition and take over again.”

“Or the Herald will take his mages to Ostagar or someplace else. And I’m afraid that would splinter the Inquisition. Perhaps even the Chantry.” Cassandra leaned against a tent pole. “Even Josephine is worried, and she’s more often on his side than not. The alliance has angered many, the revered mothers don’t know what to make of him. Most of the clerics in Haven are on _his_ side, failing to even acknowledge that his side has no place for them.”

“That side could turn into abominations! He’s not even safe there, why did you allow it?”

“Nobody asked for my permission, Commander,” Cassandra’s tone turned irritated. She might be as opposed to this as he was, but her word ought to have carried more weight, with her always at the Herald’s side. “We cannot put him back into a cell, he joined the Inquisition as an equal. And he has made it clear which side he’d take should we attempt anything with the mages.”

“He invited the mages as equals without consulting any of us! I still don’t understand why you didn’t intervene!” If only he had been at Redcliffe.

Cassandra didn’t reply right away, her expression changing instead. It reminded him of the days on the ship from Kirkwall, or the days after the explosion. Unsure of what lay ahead.

“I admit,” she finally spoke, voice sour, “that I both didn’t expect him to offer a full alliance and had my guard lowered. You weren’t there, Cullen. One moment he was taunting that magister and in the next he was standing there, clothes bloodied and a horrified look on his face. Without knowing what had happened, I could only offer the advice that had always made sense to me. Had I known the story at that time, I might have been even softer on him.” She pushed herself away from the tent pole and crossed her arms, one palm brushing off the snow that had collected on her sleeve.

“There are also other considerations. The enemy is Tevinter. Likely not the Imperium itself, but a loud enough faction, and one of mage supremacists. Trevelyan is a _mage_ , and one who has spent the better part of a decade trying to get to Tevinter, being held back by people who are no longer alive. Yet he took the rebel mages from under that magister’s nose. If this cause of his is the price to be paid, then we must pay it.”

Cullen could only gape at her for a few moments. Even Kirkwall hadn’t turned out to be an attempt to reassert the Imperium. If the Seeker of all people expected the Herald to lead them there…

“If you don’t trust him…”

“You misunderstand,” Cassandra interrupted. “The Maker sent him to _us_ first, so there must be sense and reason to it. If we reject him, then we reject those are well, and the Maker’s guidance. I don’t trust Trevelyan to put his politics aside, and I would take caution over trusting a mage’s views on right and wrong. But I trust him to do what needs to be done about the Breach. So I have given him my word that I will honor this alliance. If the templars approach us about one of their own, I will have something to say about that as well. The Order has forsaken their oaths and I am not certain it can continue to exist as it is.”

“I understand.” The Order could still prove themselves, but as long as they followed the Lord Seeker, that was unlikely to happen. Cassandra surely wouldn’t be opposed to trying to get to him after they had dealt with the Breach.

“Good,” She made to leave. “And do listen about taking a break. Also, possibly expect Trevelyan to drop by, if he has listened to anything I said to him. He might have not, in which case seek him out to reach some understanding. It is important that we work together, perhaps even more so the two of you. Not as a Circle mage and a templar, because both of you insist not to be those things any longer.”

* * *

_18 Harvestmere, 9:41_

The Herald wasn’t at the the meeting around the war table, instead of that only a new set of clothes for him was laid on a chair. They were of a less casual cut and the leather seemed finer, the silver embroidery more plentiful.

“What happens tomorrow will go down in history,” Josephine spoke somberly, having followed his eyes. “It requires appropriate representation.”

Cullen could only shake his head. The ones at the Conclave had likely also been dressed well, judging by Trevelyan’s clothes at the time. Nobody in history would care about that. Then again his own clothes were not those of a simple templar or soldier any longer, and he had to admit that they worked better on the trainees.

“Isn’t he going to join us?” He had seen Trevelyan in Josephine’s office a couple of hours ago, writing. They hadn’t spoken, and now Cassandra was giving him an accusatory look.

“He knows of everything we have to say,” Solas said. “The ritual is not without risk, but I’m reasonably certain he can survive it. We will have the mages at the ruins of the temple before dawn. The Herald wakes up early, and he’s also in best condition at that time. I have prepared a potion that will improve this night’s rest as well. We have done some limited testing of the channeling in the last few days, and while the scale has been different, his response to it was encouraging. There will be two hundred mages ready to cast, we will start with ninety, and have more join in gradually, should need be.”

Just like that Solas nodded slightly and was out of the room before anyone could ask questions. Not that any of them was knowledgeable enough to question any of the plan.

“Next we decide on our official stance,” Leliana put her hands behind her back and looked first at Josephine, then at Cassandra, and finally at Cullen himself. “If he lives, we adopt the current standing of only knowing what the Maker has given us as a sign. The title of Herald has already spread far, and faith winning over doubt will send a stronger message than faith unchallenged.”

Cullen shrugged at the display of Chantry rhetoric. As skeptical as he had grown of most things surrounding the Chantry, he liked Cassandra’s take on faith better than Leliana’s machinations. Cassandra, however, nodded her consent.

“That would suit him better. He _does_ know the Chant but we could never tell just when he’d decide to snap at a cleric.” One of the corners of her mouth curled up. “As much as Val Royeaux threw the accusation simply as a first resort, he is a heretic.”

Josephine chuckled and Cullen had to wonder just what sort of strange tales she had heard from the Herald, and how much she cared. The Chantry was probably just another player to her.

“If there are no objections…” Leliana looked around again, and when nobody spoke up, continued. “In the event of his death we need to be firmer and establish him as the blessed Herald of Andraste.” Her eyes narrowed as they moved around, measuring everyone’s reaction. Cullen truly didn’t know just what the difference would be. “The Inquisition was founded with him as the Herald, we cannot allow for that presence to disappear from out side. We have only just began our work.”

“So he gets a few verses of his own in the Chant of Light?” Cullen couldn’t help thinking that this would be yet another way for the Chantry to splinter if it were to happen.

“It is too soon for that,” Josephine said completely seriously, “but there will be a last will.”

She stretched across the table to hand a heavy parchment to Cassandra. The Seeker looked through it without any visible change in her expression.

“This is mild, compared to how he talks.”

“Josie worded most of it,” Leliana smiled. “It cannot be easily dismissed.”

“I approve,” Cassandra finally said and handed Cullen the document. “The world needs peace and everyone with enough sense knows that change is needed.”

Cullen was prepared to read at least something about templars and the Chantry, but there was none of that in the document. All of it was about mages and then everybody else, with a few mentions of the Maker and Andraste here and there. Leliana was right, however, in that few would object. It sounded so good that everyone who didn’t know any better would gladly believe it. Still, by not even mentioning the Chantry or templars, it also didn’t directly speak against them. Then again neither did the document acknowledge them. He looked up to mostly critical pairs of eyes and put the paper on the table.

“I suppose this will have to do, until the clerics manage to agree on some order again. Isn’t there anything else, personal belongings and such?”

“He doesn’t own anything, Commander.” Josephine said, some real sharpness in her voice, just before the diplomat returned. “He said that he didn’t care what happens with his remains. It has also been agreed that Master Solas would set free the spirit in Equinor in the safest manner possible.”

When there was nothing else to be said, Leliana and Josephine left. Cullen turned to Cassandra before she could give him another scathing look.

“I will send a regular soldier to ask for him at the magi camp. It seems there is little time left.”

“He went fishing, with Sera and Dorian. Although I am not sure between the three of them they can shut up for long enough to actually catch anything.”

* * *

When Cullen got to the river, instead of a hole in the ice, something like a tree was sticking out from the surface. He suppressed another sigh. The magi camp was surrounded by weird statues of ice and snow as well.

“Captain Jackboot!” Sera scrambled up from the blanket the three were sitting on, picked up something, and ran across the ice without slipping once. When she approached, Cullen saw that she had a grilled fish on a stick in one hand, and a raw one in the other. Of course she handed him the uncooked one.

“Thank you, Sera, but I just want to talk to the Herald for a minute.”

Sera threw the raw fish back at the mages, which was probably her weird way of asking for Trevelyan to come to the shore, because he did indeed rise up and start his own very much slower walk on the ice.

“Um,” Cullen started once the Herald stood still two steps away from him. “The magister in custody has refused all food since Leliana’s visit. There won’t be need for a templar guarding him if he continues like that.”

Trevelyan shrugged, his eyes still focused on something behind Cullen’s back.

“If that’s what he has chosen, I won’t be the one feeding him soup.”

The other Tevinter mage hadn’t even visited his former mentor, but at least now he would know to do so before it was too late. Things with the mages had been calm, so Cullen didn’t really know where to start. Only a few had ventured into Haven, and they had left their staves behind and refrained from casting anything at all. As far as mages going around unchecked was concerned, there didn’t seem to be anything else to demand from them. Most had been going to the chantry anyway.

“I am glad things with the mages are calm despite the torn and thinned Veil, though if something happens, I’m not sure…”

“If it does, the mages will deal with it,” Trevelyan drawled and turned his side to Cullen, to look at the Breach instead. “The Veil was thinner at Redcliffe, as well as at Kinloch Hold. The Breach scares away more spirits than it attracts, and the ones who make it out are not in the mood for negotiations.”

“But if even one mage falls to it…”

“Then _we_ will deal with it. If you’re so adamant about not getting your peace of mind, then stop making me try to explain. Is there anything else?”

At least the Herald was looking at him now, though Cullen wasn’t sure if any inroads had been made into working together.

“No… I just thought I’d ask. I will pray that you are successful tomorrow, and the mages too. That you live.”

“I will,” Trevelyan said, emphatically. “Thank you.”

* * *

_19 Harvestmere, 9:41_

The beam of light spiraling and pulsing into the Breach was almost painful to look at. The sun was just about to show, and the snow still only reflected green. They were at more than hundred mages now, and time seemed to drag, even though no more than half a minute had passed. Cullen could only see the Herald’s back from where he was standing. Cassandra and Solas were closer, at Trevelyan’s side.

The blast came together with a blinding light, and when he opened his eyes again, Cullen didn’t know whether to look at the sky first or at the people lying strewn on the ground. He looked up. A jagged mark was all that remained of the Breach, barely visible now that the light and colors of the dawn were taking over.

“He’s alive!” Cassandra’s voice reached him and he looked back down, mages getting up and looking up and around. The Herald was still on the ground, however, Solas examining the hand with the mark and casting his healing spells. A stretcher appeared, and Trevelyan was carried away from the cheering crowd, the cart rushing down the slope.

* * *

The festivities would start with the Herald still asleep in his old cabin. Some of the mages had gathered in front of it together with villagers and soldiers alike, but luckily most were still at their camp. The Grand Enchanter gave Cullen a polite nod, and he responded in kind. She at least knew how to acknowledge him. Hopefully also how to keep the mages from turning into a sea of abominations better than Orsino had known.

He opened the door and stepped inside, surprised and taken back to see Dorian Pavus sitting in an upholstered chair with a book and a glass of wine.

“I thought Solas and Adan would be here with the Herald.”

“They were,” the Tevinter shrugged and turned a page. “All there is to do now is wait for him to wake up. I would advise against sending a templar to watch me, that would hardly be a face the Herald would enjoy waking up to.”

“Someone trusted should be watching after him.” Cullen felt irritation rise up as he remembered that Dorian Pavus was supposed to be watched himself, and somehow that had fallen under the table almost as soon as it had been decided.

“I am the only one qualified to tell him that he didn’t die once, when he wakes up,” the Tevinter smirked while Cullen was trying to make sense of his words. “It’s a mage thing. Perhaps you could stay if you’re so worried about him. I can read to you something out of,” Dorian Pavus kept his thumb on the pages and lowered the book’s cover, “well, no, probably not a good idea.”

“I will send someone,” Cullen turned back to leave and look for Cassandra.

“Tell them to bring some more wine when they come.”

He walked through the village, going around the tables and benches people were arranging. The smell of grilled meat and fresh bread filled the air. They only had food supplies for at most two weeks, after tonight that would go down to no more than ten days.

“Some of the mages will do fireworks when it gets dark!” Josephine was all smiles, just like everybody else.

“No way of putting this on hold until he wakes up?” It was hard not to smile, the mood was infectious.

“It could be another day according to Solas, people can’t wait that long.” Josephine stopped to give a stack of papers to a servant. “As I understand he will also not be up for eating or drinking when he wakes up, so it is better to have those celebrations now, and keep the more respectful ones for later.”

* * *

He had woken up after all, late in the evening. Cullen hadn’t ever seen a mage with what Vivienne called severe mana imbalance, so he didn’t know what to expect. Trevelyan just looked pale and tired. Perhaps it was similar to the condition after a Harrowing, with the excess of lyrium still lingering in the system. It didn’t take those more than a day or two to feel comfortable casting once again. Josephine had been right to move the noisiest part of the celebrations as early as possible. There was still dancing and laughter, but mostly people were getting tired and ready to go to sleep as the air turned too cold.

Cassandra had taken the mage aside to talk to him. There would probably be much need for talks and deliberation in the following days, the Inquisition had finally proven itself to the world, and Cullen supposed he’d be getting another speech on working together as well any time now.

What he got instead was the shrill sound of the bells calling alarm.

The dancing stopped, everybody growing quiet and looking around. Cullen made it to the gates at the same time as Josephine, the Ambassador holding a sheathed rapier, armed for the first time since he had met her.

“Commander, a mage…” Maker, why did that have to happen now of all times? Cullen knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, but why now? “They saw an enemy force, hundreds of torches, Commander. One attacked the camp, a templar, the mage said, though he didn’t make it far with all of them there.”

The soldier’s words were slowly sinking in, and it was worse than what he had assumed first, worse than what he feared.

“I can’t come in unless you open!” A voice both panicked and confused sounded behind the gates just as Trevelyan was pulling them open. The Herald stopped only briefly before a Tevinter knight in full armor collapsed into the snow, revealing a thin raggedy figure behind him, then ran past them towards the magi camp. He was stopped when the figure, no more than a youth, grabbed his wrist.

“I’m Cole. I came to warn you. To help. People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know.”

Trevelyan was pulling his hand free when Cassandra ran to Cullen’s side, their swords bared. Cullen still couldn’t believe what the soldier had told him, not for all of them. But he could see the hundreds of lights in the distance, and someone was carrying them.

“The templars come to kill you.” The youth’s words made Trevelyan freeze for a moment.

Cullen walked over to the two. “Is this the Order’s response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?”

“The red templars went to the Elder One.” Cole turned to the Herald anew. “You know him? He knows you. You took his mages.”

Walls of ice sprung in the distance around the magi camp and in front of the village, protecting as much as obscuring. Trevelyan had gone off, running to the camp, when two more templars emerged and flanked him. Cassandra was already halfway to him, but she wouldn’t make it, the templars closed the distance to Trevelyan. Then they both simply crumbled, lightning still in the air, their protective aura overwhelmed by a single mage. The Herald swayed and it looked like he was about to fall over as well, when Cassandra got there.

They would probably get the camp evacuated, though where to was unclear. More of the advance forces were coming close enough to attack, and the people were in panic, both outside of Haven and, judging by the shouting, inside of it as well. Cullen yelled for the mages present to attack, and three of them did, but only one of the templars approaching fell. The youth had said ‘red templars’, if that meant what Meredith had become, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

A cleaver smashed into the two remaining templars that were getting closer, and the Iron Bull stepped over the bodies.

“Their commander is over there,” The Qunari pointed over the ice walls to a ridge in the distance. “But whatever that army is, little of it is made up of men.”

Cullen took the spyglass Bull handed him and pointed it to the ridge. It was Samson. Kirkwall would come after him, it seemed, in one form or another. But the army was bigger than Kirkwall’s dwindling regimen, much bigger. The Iron Bull was right that they weren’t regular men, at least not all of them. Some he still could make out as templars behind the raised shields, but others were like Meredith, red lyrium covering what didn’t look human anymore. The Elder One didn’t look human either, though neither did he look like a once templar.

A line of fleeing mages had poured from the camp, and the front of it reached Haven’s gates, splitting into two.

“Get the children inside the chantry,” the Seeker’s voice rose above the rest of the noise. “Commander, evacuate those who cannot fight there as well, enemies are coming from the sides, the fence won’t hold!”

There were too many, more than the soldiers and mages combined, and how many mages would be able to take on a templar, let alone a red lyrium one? Fiona was taking charge, directing the incoming mages to one side or another, but the Herald was just standing there, stunned and even paler than he had been before. When Fiona handed him a flask and he lifted it to drink, Cullen flinched. There was no time to lose though, so he instructed his soldiers to fire the trebuchets as far into the mountain as they could. That would at least buy them some time, though the bulk of the forces was still too far in the distance to get hit by the snow.

Inside the village walls everyone appeared to be running around with whatever sword or bow they had managed to find, the doors to the chantry open wide. A few ravens flew away from Leliana’s tent, but any help that might arrive would be coming too late. Then the rest of the birds were let free, aimlessly flapping over Haven until most of them settled on top of the chantry. 

“To hide, perhaps, but most are collapsed further out!” One of Bull’s people was yelling and Leliana nodded. “Not enough charges to free up everything, and there might be still demons left!”

The soldiers were taking position around the perimeter, backed by villagers, when distant cheers erupted. The sky beyond the fence was covered in snow that had flown up after it had collapsed from the mountains. Cullen ran back out to take in the situation. That would give them an hour, perhaps, until the rest of the army got closer, but there was nothing else to collapse if they stayed. They had to leave Haven and fire the trebuchets again, to the mountains around the village.

The clash of metal came from behind the walls at the same time as a shrill screech in the sky, and then a swish, as a dragon flew low above the village.

“Cullen! Get everyone to the chantry, someone is controlling the dragon!” Cassandra was right, that was the only building that could hold against the beast, if even that. He threw one last look at the ridge where Samson had been standing, but the snow was still thick in the air. His soldiers ran past him into Haven, the snow on the ground turned into bloody mush. The mages followed them soon after that, leaving behind as many ice walls as they could, all the while aware that the enemy wasn’t just walking towards them any longer.

The village wasn’t any less bloody, and he cursed himself for not having a larger army when he saw the bodies of mostly workers and villagers. The dragon had already managed to light up a few buildings, and the fire would soon spread all over the rest. When the chantry doors closed behind him and everyone he had managed to gather on his way, he realized that he hadn’t seen the Herald anywhere. Cassandra had gone missing again as well. Fiona was here, though whether all the mages were, he couldn’t tell. The chantry was full to the brim, the uncomfortable feel of magic still in the air. The healers, he supposed.

“I need some mages capable of destroying walls,” Leliana’s voice echoed. “We cannot wait for this building to collapse on us, the tunnels underneath Haven are our best chance to escape the army.”

The multitude swayed aside as much as they could to clear a path to the entrance that led to the undercroft.

“Agreed,” Cullen said. “We can collapse enough snow to bury them once we’re down, then maybe we will manage to win against those who remain. If we make it out.”

He had never imagined an army of the Order finding their end like that, even less so by his command. He felt the quake underneath as the passage under the chantry was opened to the rest of the tunnels.

“We need to organize groups,” Fiona stepped forth. “There is no telling who or what we could meet down there.”

Cullen tried to take count of how many solders remained.

“Six soldiers and two of your best mages at the front of each leading group, and a group for every single fork in the tunnels you come upon. We cannot have something attack from the side.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t do that,” the same dwarf from the Chargers spoke up. “Some of the tunnels won’t hold if you drop a mountain on top of them. One advance group with me checking the place, and everyone else following is what I suggest.”

“Better listen to him,” Bull grunted.

Before the change of plans could be discussed any further the door creaked open and Cullen prepared his sword. It was a few villagers coming in, followed by Cassandra, Trevelyan and then Cole alongside Chancellor Roderick. Cullen had completely forgotten that man had ever existed. Minaeve collapsed against the door at the same time as the Herald did, and started sobbing just like many others were. Cullen didn’t have to wonder what the matter was with Trevelyan. Even at the three steps that separated them the smell of lyrium was thick in the air.

“He tried to stop a templar. The blade went deep. He’s going to die.” Cole was talking about Roderick, Cullen realized.

Fiona stood up from the entrance where she was healing Trevelyan, probably capable of doing very little for him, and moved to where Cole had dropped the chancellor. She cast, but shook her head.

“He’s going to die,” Cole repeated.

“What a charming boy,” Roderick muttered, semi-delirious already.

Trevelyan seemed to be in pretty much the same state. He had stood up but his face was expressionless, and the white of his eyes had started tinging pink from the lyrium. The groups to lead through the tunnels had merged again, arguing what was to be done, when the building shook from a sudden hit.

“We need to leave! Now!” The building shook again, it could crumble before they had made it out.

“The dragon will likely cut a way for the army through the ice, we have no more than half an hour before all of them make it here. Some were already close enough, we need to defend the village again to keep the chantry safe from them.” Cassandra’s armor was red from blood all over.

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald.”

“Why does he want me, do you know?” Trevelyan turned to Cole.

“I don’t. He’s too loud. It hurts to hear him.” Nothing the boy was saying made any sense to Cullen. “He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he’ll crush them, kill them anyway.” Cole lowered his head, the wide brim of his hat hiding his face completely. “I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like…?” Cullen spread his arms, tired of the nonsense.

“Will the dragon leave this building alone if I am not in it?”

“Yes. Perhaps.” Cole nodded, then turned to the back of the chantry. “Chancellor Roderick also wants to help. Before he dies.”

“There is a path,” Roderick wheezed. A path, one to lead all of them safely out of the village and through the mountains around it. The chancellor managed to pull himself up and walk to the Herald. “She must have shown me so I could… tell you. Herald… if you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this, I pray for you.”

“Do we have any more lyrium?” Trevelyan turned to Fiona and she signaled a few mages.

“I will try to keep this Elder One occupied for long enough. Perhaps he will want to talk. The rest of you follow the path Roderick knows, it’s better than getting trapped in the tunnels.” Trevelyan took yet another large leather flask from Fiona.

“What about the army, if they follow…”

“I will fire the last trebuchet.” The Herald sighed and Cullen had to think of that one assurance that he would live. But that had been about the Breach, and this here wasn’t survivable. When the mountain dropped…

“Perhaps you will surprise him, find a way…” Cullen raised his hand. “Inquisition! Move!”

“Well, I’m not coming,” Dorian Pavus grinned. “I have better manners than to leave before greeting a fellow countryman. I have to show him around the best places in Haven.”

“It _is_ a dragon,” Bull grumbled with some dubious enthusiasm.

“I’ve seen an Archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that.” Cole shook his head. Maker, that was another mage then.

“Well, that’s still a dragon, so I’ll stay for it. And I am good against these templars of yours.” Bull hit the cleaver into the stone floor.

“Stop posturing and join the others,” Cassandra snapped. “I can take the templars, there is no need for anyone else. I will stay with the Herald.”

Cullen waited for Cole to move Roderick through the crowd, then turned to Cassandra.

“Lady Cassandra, wait until we are over the tree line, we will signal. Herald… Maker preserve you both.”

“It’s the four of us, Cullen,” Bull turned to open the chantry doors, sinking his cleaver into the skull of a red templar who was standing in the narrow opening. Trevelyan turned as well and froze a line of five or six more for Bull to hack through.

“Attracting attention is a specialty of mine,” Dorian spun his staff and strutted to the door.

“When I say go, all of you absolutely do so. Bull, you pick them up if they refuse to, or your Chargers get paid in half.” Trevelyan spared one last look at the people in the chantry, then turned around and left with his small group.

“You got that, Boss.”

* * *

Cullen was waiting on a small hill, the end of the long line of people slowly moving away from him. The three dots quickly grew larger, running on the now well-trodden path. The horses had been let free as well, and a few had rejoined the familiar string of people, Chancellor Roderick more dead than alive on the back of a Fereldan forder. Only a dozen or so red templars had stumbled upon them, and they hadn’t been a problem. Below, however, a few hundred had surrounded and walked into Haven. Cullen had seen the dragon fly into the village, then everything had grown quiet. Was the Herald really talking to the Elder One?

The avalanche came before Cassandra and the others reached him, the three of them turning to look at the snow that slid and poured over Haven. Cullen swallowed, struck at the force of it, and at the thought that it was now grave to so many he had once worked with. Not to the dragon, however, the creature rose high before the snow hit. Was the Elder One with it, was Samson with it, or somewhere else? Just like before, the air grew white with snow and he couldn’t see anything at all, could only hear the continuous thudding.

Cullen found himself walking towards Cassandra when the ground began to shake. They should be safe here, but Dorian was still casting a barrier.

“Shit, it broke the ice under the snow,” Bull’s finger pointed at the mountain behind Haven.

A second avalanche followed, invisible behind the snow the first one had raised, but sounding like veritable thunder. Dorian cursed as the barrier dissolved, snow from the impact flung as far as where they were standing.

“Maker!” Cassandra exclaimed.

“What a way to go!” Bull nudged her and the Tevinter mage towards Cullen and nobody spoke again as they walked faster to catch up with the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There just needed to be a spyglass, no templar senses tingling, please. There is one in lore, in Awakening, so that should be fine.


	18. Chapter 18

_19 Harvestmere, 9:41_

The dank prison cell took over the cosiness and warmth of Minrathous as Alexius woke up. He acknowledged the persistent clank of metal coming from across his cell first, then the swaying of the flame from the torch perched on the wall. Then he felt the cause for all these, as the faint earthquake continued, but coming from above. Whatever was going on, he was alone, the templar was gone.

Some dignity allowed at last, Alexius tossed the flimsy blanket away and inscribed a fire glyph on the nearby wall, one warming the air around him within seconds. He felt better, whether it was the warmth or his stomach not hurting anymore. A few seconds later the thudding was still going on and specks of mortar had started peppering the ground next to the iron bars. Alexius frowned and lifted himself up with some trouble.

The barrier sprang around him instinctively. The dull rumbling was interrupted by sharp crashes and cracks. The door of the cell opposite to his swung open, hitting the bars behind it with a sharp clang. A fist-sized stone dropped to the ground a step away from him but in the distance from all sides there was more, rock hitting rock, the impact carrying over to under his feet. He kept the barrier as strong as he could, feeling it drain too much from him, the weakness not having gone away the same way the hunger had done.

The glyph illuminated enough of the cell, and with relief he saw that the stone above his head was yet uncracked. The wall at the back of the cell wasn’t from the same material, it seemed, and a boulder was halfway out. The shaking stopped before the rock could get completely dislodged, and for a few seconds Alexius continued to stand in the middle of the cell, waiting for the earthquake to return. When it didn’t he finally allowed himself to relax a little and pay some more attention to the state of the ceiling. It wasn’t about to fall on him, at least not gradually, and he wouldn’t be able to sustain for long a barrier capable of holding off a sudden collapse. 

Alexius put up a thick ice pillar in the middle of the cell, then reapplied the file glyph that he had completely forgotten in his relief. Whatever had happened to the southern templar that would get the most irate reaction from Alexius zapping a rat dead? An attack on the village, perhaps, since the templar had been already gone before the dungeon started collapsing. Maybe the cells were under some large building that had been destroyed, but then why all the vibrating preamble?

If there had been an attack, it must have been the Elder One. Alexius wondered if the Venatori would seek him out here, to free him, or more likely to kill him now that he had failed. With the Breach closed there was no way for him to redeem himself, let alone ask for favors. He would have imagined an attack being louder, however, and now everything was quiet again. One last look at the stone above him, he sat down between the pillar and the fire on the wall and pulled out Felix’s letter. All the information on the Venatori had been the price the redheaded woman had demanded in return for a few lines written by his son. A single little note that wasn’t even addressed to him.

_Dorian, I am boarding a ship shortly and will race to Minrathous with all I’ve got. The Magisterium must know of this. Wish me luck. You know how long it can take to gather the senate. If you get the chance to speak to my father one last time, please tell him that I love him. And, should he need to hear it, that I forgive him._

_Your friend,_ _Felix Alexius_

Alexius had lost his tears months ago, and even the dry sobs not too long after that. Minrathous was at least ten days away, days without anyone to perform the magic that kept the infection from spreading, much as its effect had weakened in the last months. He read the letter over and over. Dorian hadn’t come to see him, blaming him for what he had tried to do, just like Felix blamed him. Maybe Dorian was dead now, and soon Felix, if he even made it to Minrathous.

He didn’t know how long he had spent staring at the note and not seeing anything else, but the fire glyph had been forgotten once again, and the the surface of the pillar of ice was wet. Nobody was coming, it seemed. Alexius stood up and called on a wisp to look at the surroundings in more detail.

The wall behind him was definitely something that hadn’t been part of this dungeon originally, same with the masonry that held the iron bars of the cell. Both sides seemed easy enough to destroy if he couldn’t manage the padlock, but he wasn’t regaining much of the mana he had spent so far. It would be wise to conserve as much of it as possible, and to find something to improve his focus. A staff just lying around would be unlikely, so he looked for something he could substitute for it. The templars had tended to a fire in a corner, and he lowered the wisp to look for the fire irons they had been using. Once the wisp showed him the long pair of tongs, he pulled them to himself.

He took off the belt of his overcoat, grateful for once that they hadn’t taken his clothes away, only the metal guards, and removed the buckle. Far from ideal but there was still enough lyrium in it to serve as a head for a makeshift staff. Perhaps once he was out he’d be able to find something better. He put the buckle between the ends of the arms and wound the belt around it to hold everything together. The result was very disappointing, once he tested, the tongs dissipating more energy than they guided. Alexius disassembled the staff once again and looked around for something else to use.

The iron bars of the cells were too thick and heavy, and nothing else came to mind. Finally he stood still, focused as much as he could and twirled the tongs’ arms into a spiral. Once the buckle stood between the ends again, albeit short, it was a much better staff than before, and obviously what he would have to settle for. He lowered the wisp to look at the lock of the door. It seemed to be the most complex thing in this dungeon, which wasn’t saying much seeing as it wasn’t built for mages. At least they had removed the heavy shackles from his wrists once they had deemed him willing enough to comply and stay still.

He prepared to start rattling the insides of the padlock when a sharp screech sounded and then five or six creatures flew out from the opposite cell. They halted at the sight of him and the wisp, deepstalkers or some other sort of southern beasts, then one was hit by an errant lightning spell that didn’t do all that much apart from sending it and the rest scattering into whatever dark corners they could find. Alexius let go of the lock immediately and prepared to greet the visitor by throwing the wisp at the dark crevice to blind whomever that was.

* * *

The man had shaded his eyes from the light by the time he stepped close enough, but Alexius didn’t need to see his face to know who he was. The hand that was obscuring what was behind it was gleaming green, piercing the glove and much stronger than Alexius had ever witnessed it. Trevelyan wasn’t holding a staff. Alexius withdrew the wisp and the hand was lowered, a few seconds passing for Trevelyan’s eyes to adjust. The visit was obviously unplanned, as the Herald seemed even more surprised to see him than the other way around.

“Alexius?” The question came as more of a sigh. Once Trevelyan left the support of the wall to approach, Alexius saw that he was swaying. There was dried blood on the right side of his face, and the hair surrounding it was flattened. Blood was splattered all over his overcoat as well, although it didn’t seem to be his. As for the garment itself, the lower part of it was scratched and torn. What had happened for Trevelyan of all people to be here alone, unarmed and by the looks of it left to defend himself against deepstalkers?

“Even more bedraggled than I last saw you, Herald?”

He had only met Trevelyan inside buildings, under the soft and subdued light of fires, had never paid that much attention to the color of his eyes. They looked an uneasy blue under the hard light of the wisp, or perhaps it was the contrast to the whites of his eyes turned a deep pink.

“I’ve seen you in a worse state than that.” Trevelyan had reached the clearing and slowly sat down, eyes too tired to be anything more than contrary. He was referring to something experienced during that trip through time, something the spymaster had been very tight-lipped about. Perhaps with the Breach closed he’d get to learn more, now that the one thing to power time magic was gone. Or at least learn what had happened above his head.

“They forgot you.”

It looked like that, but Alexius wasn’t sure whether “they” would be the Inquisition or the Venatori. If it were the latter, then they had completely failed to pursue a man who was barely walking.

“Help me get out of here,” Trevelyan simply said, and Alexius was struck speechless for a second. Then he laughed.

“I seem like the last person you should be asking for help. I tried to erase you from time. And if it weren’t for you, my son would have been saved.” The lock clicked open and Alexius wasn’t even a prisoner any longer.

“You are the last person.” Trevelyan almost hissed, though whether it was from anger or from pain, Alexius couldn’t tell. The mark on Trevelyan’s hand seemed to be troubling him, and he slid it between himself and the floor before speaking again. “You were trying to fix things, I think. I read some of your diary. You were trying to unwind time to not only before the Breach, but also before the Venatori… and before Felix got infected.”

“You truly went into the future, didn’t you?” Of course Alexius had thought of going back to prevent everything, but he hadn’t had the time to explore that possibility, or even to commit the idea to paper. He walked into the clearing, cast a belated barrier around himself and carefully crouched opposite of the Herald. “What happened there? And what happened here today?”

“What do you want to hear? How there were no more people for blood sacrifices? Or how your son was worse than a Tranquil?”

Alexius took pride in his ability to control himself, but he found his knees dropping to the floor and one hand leaping ahead to grab Trevelyan by the collar of his coat, dragging his body along with it, until Alexius was looming over the other mage.

“Or how about your Elder One being darkspawn himself?” Trevelyan continued his dispassionate delivery, although his eyes had a strange gleam to them now and the whiff of lyrium hit Alexius’ nose.

“Do you have a death wish, boy?” His fingers tightened around the leather and Trevelyan just laughed, then that got cut off by a pained gasp. “Don’t you dare talk about my son!”

“Dare to talk? You wanted to take my people to serve your blighted god! You had all those Tranquil killed! Your son would have been dead or Tranquil if he had been born in the south!” Trevelyan’s voice had been steadily rising and now his screaming was echoing around the stone tunnel. The gleam in his eyes had turned to tears that streaked through blood and grime. “Kill me if you want, I’m dead if I stay here either way!”

Alexius let go and the marked hand slipped between them, Trevelyan sobbing into his sleeve. He felt lost, now that more of the things the Herald had said were starting to sink in. Then again it might be the blood in his hair or the lyrium in his blood that had spun some of the story. He sighed and cast a rejuvenating spell around the mage, one that went unacknowledged, then sat down and waited for the tears to stop. When they eventually did, he groaned and stood up again to go fetch the battered wash basin and one of the thin bed sheets from his cell. Before the outburst Trevelyan had looked like someone walking out of a battle. Now he looked like he had come out of a war.

“Clean yourself up,” he placed down the wash basin next to Trevelyan, then conjured some warm water and handed him the sheet. He had spoken in his mentor voice, he realized. It had been a long time since he’d last used it. “Where do you hurt? How much lyrium did you drink?”

The Herald remained silent, although he finally dipped the corner of the sheet into the water and swiped it over his face. He went on to repeat that action until he was mostly rubbing over somewhat clean skin and new tears.

“I can’t move my right shoulder, and it’s swelling. Maybe a few ribs. I closed the head wound but that was the last time I cast anything effective.” He finally dropped the bed sheet on the floor. “I hurt pretty much everywhere above the waist, and the lyrium didn’t even help much in the end. Perhaps thirty doses.”

“I am not a healer,” Alexius shook his head and sat down. “Without any alchemy either, all I can do is keep up the rejuvenating aura. What did you mean by the Elder One being a darkspawn?”

“He claims to be,” Trevelyan attempted something like a shrug, “one of the magisters that entered the Golden City. Or Black City. He looked the part, and he commanded a dragon that might have been an Archdemon.”

“I have seen darkspawn, they are a mindless plague. And the story you are talking about is just a story out of your Chantry.” Alexius resigned himself to Trevelyan having been delirious after all. “A story to tell everyone so that mages are stuffed in towers and mutilated.”

“What does your Chantry say?” Trevelyan finally lifted his eyes to face him. “And you’re one to talk about what mages here face.”

“The darkspawn come from deep underground, not from the Fade. The Elder One’s ambition to enter the Black City was what it had been fourteen ages ago, a demonstration of what the Imperium could do, to show that we can restore it to what it used to be.”

“Corypheus,” Trevelyan spat out. “That is his name. And I talked to him, you didn’t. There were few things that would convince me that you were telling the truth about not knowing who the Elder One was, him being darkspawn turns out to be one of them.”

Alexius wondered if Calpernia had any more knowledge than Trevelyan was professing to have, if any of this could be true. Above all, whether, if it was true, a darkspawn could cure the blight. He renewed the aura around the other mage.

“For your own sake, be considerate when you answer my question. What had happened to Felix in the future you visited?”

“I don’t know,” Trevelyan sighed. “It was a year later, Dorian didn’t even recognize Felix at first. He was just… an emaciated body,” Alexius flinched, “a ghoul perhaps. Then he died. As did you, but you also wanted to.”

Alexius buried his face in his hands and felt he was about to cry for the first time in many months. It had been hopeless, he’d only made Felix suffer even more. Would have, if that future had come to pass.

“I will help you out of these tunnels then.” He stood up and extended a hand to the Herald. He thought back to Felix’s letter. “How much does Felix know about that future?”

“I don’t know how much Dorian told him.”

Alexius had no way of knowing just how much Felix had been willing to forgive him for.

* * *

He ended up removing enough of the wall at the back of his cell for the two of them to continue down that part of the maze. Alexius had assumed they would simply need to go up, he hadn’t expected what Trevelyan had told him about the avalanche. Or about the hundreds of templars that had attacked, that he also hadn’t had any knowledge of. The corridors split and wound, and he was beginning to lose hope. His mana was still barely recovering, and they had to abandon some of the collapsed tunnels when it became clear that he couldn’t remove all the rocks that were blocking the way ahead, perhaps for a lot more than the few meters he had stopped at.

Trevelyan was barely there himself, eyes glazed over and struggling to move along the wall. The bare arsenal of Alexius’ healing spells helped, but only while they were resting, it seemed. It felt like it had been hours when they finally came upon a likely exit, one blocked mostly by ice and then snow. Alexius left the Herald to rest under the stone archway and started to carefully push aside and melt the snow, trying to keep a slight upward curve. He only just managed to, in the end, completely drained of mana, but the outside wasn’t what he had been expecting.

“There is a blizzard,” he told Trevelyan after almost five minutes of walking back to him. “Even under normal circumstances it would be hard to keep up a barrier with so many hits on it, small as they may be.”

Trevelyan nodded, sleepily, and Alexius had to wonder just how far from death the mage was. Sleep might afford some recovery, but it might also just turn eternal.

“I must confess I didn’t think you capable of closing the Breach. I wonder how your name will live on in history.”

“You and me both,” Trevelyan murmured. “Which is why I’d rather get back and do more than just closing the Breach.”

Alexius wondered just how welcome the Herald would actually be now that he had done what they had him for. Or the mages, for that matter. After years of fighting for more money for education, even for the soporati, and less for wars, he had betrayed those southern mages, at least the ones of age, into more war. Yet at the time it had seemed like a step toward something better. They had already been at a war of their own, one they didn’t even know how to fight.

“It’s cold,” Trevelyan whispered.

That it was, and now there seemed to be a draft, the air finding its way through who knows where. Alexius put up a barrier on the exit, one that radiated warmth and stopped the flow of air at the same time. It wasn’t going to be easy to keep it up, he was losing mana faster than he could recover it once again, and that was troubling with the small quantity that was actually needed.

“My magic won’t be able to keep us going for long, I’m afraid. I didn’t pick a good time to boycott meals at your rat infested prison.”

“I slept in that cell for three days myself, please don’t tell me about what life it was harboring.” Something like a smile slid across Trevelyan’s face. “Can you do blood magic?”

Alexius hadn’t been expecting that question. He had considered drawing some strength that way while away from the Herald, but the process wasn’t very efficient, at least at his level of experience. He would need to do it again, and he feared what the reaction would be.

“Well? Dorian said that this was not considered real blood magic and that pretty much everyone knows it.”

“I could draw from blood,” Alexius admitted. “I didn’t want to have maleficar hanging over me as well, if we were to ever make it to your people.”

“I’m pretty sure your time magic was already enough for that accusation,” the Herald’s voice was livelier, and drier at the same time.

“It wouldn’t have been if I’d managed to save a life with it,” Alexius shook his head. “But that seems pointless now, with the Breach closed and the energy gone.”

“You were only able to affect the time during which the Breach had been there to start with. Or at least a year under threat of death for you and Felix didn’t get you any further than that. You know, if it were possible, I would have helped you in whatever way you needed. I didn’t even want however many years. Half an hour before the Conclave would have been enough.”

“I wasn’t trying to prevent the Breach from appearing, that would have resulted in a paradox that might have been impossible to overcome,” Alexius noted.

“So be it. I was just going to get my friends out of there.” This time the smile was definitely there on Trevelyan’s lips, but it was also quite tired and sad. “You are not the only one who has lost someone, Alexius. Except that your son is actually still alive.”

* * *

Trevelyan handed him a dagger just like that and proceeded to watch with a mix of curiosity and caution. It had been some forty years since Alexius had tried out drawing from blood. He’d never needed to before today. At the first sight of blood Trevelyan started chanting and Alexius laughed, he couldn’t help himself.

“It is not that kind of blood magic. I never actually learned any spells for mind manipulation, not that this would be the best tool against such.” The Herald didn’t seem to place much value on such a reassurance. “That, and you got at least two places wrong, if not the whole thing entirely with that pronunciation.”

“You know of this?”

“Of this and more. No magister would survive in Tevinter without at least a couple of wards, just in case. More, and better ones, if the attack is expected.” The South was truly atrocious in what it taught its mages.

“I can’t say I’d be surprised if it’s wrong,” Trevelyan sighed, then unclasped the book hanging from his belt. “The book I copied it from was a copy of a copy of who knows how many copies. Most likely it had been altered on purpose anyway. So it is not enough, even when it’s right?”

Alexius took the book that had been handed to him opened on the first page, and the pencil to correct whatever was wrong.

“The litany is good for what it is, but it is only what it is. Something even mundanes can use, of short duration, obvious to the adversary, and useless against anything more subtle.” He corrected the half dozen places that were wrong and wrote out in the margin a sentence that was missing entirely before handing back the book. “You could have asked this of Dorian, you know.”

“He has enough animosity directed at him without us discussing blood magic. Didn’t seem he cared to do so anyway.” Trevelyan closed the book after having spent some time taking in the changes. “How does the whole mages ruling thing actually work anyway? Nobody else in my family is a mage, and it appears that even with your marriage habits you don’t always get what you want.”

Alexius pursed his lips at yet another hint, if not a mention, of Felix. 

“There isn’t much actual ruling happening in Tevinter nowadays. It’s fighting over and guarding scraps, every attempt at progress suffocated before it can bear fruit. Ruling takes not only power, it takes integrity and knowledge.” He raised to go check whether the storm had subsided enough for them to venture out. “And you would do well to assume less about what I have wanted.”

He ignored Trevelyan pulling a face, especially now that the prolonged rest had made him look more alive and less pitiable, and entered the snow tunnel. The sky had cleared and it wasn’t snowing any longer. The wind was as sharp as before, but now it only seemed to raise some snow from the ground, and that could be endured. Likely not without another cut in his arm, but still doable. Alexius spent a few moments observing the scar in the sky, all that remained of the Breach. Livia had been close to a breakthrough before she had been taken away from him. Maybe together with her research on how time magic affected the Veil more would have been possible. But she was gone, and now the Breach was gone, too. Two opportunities, separated by time he had no chance of controlling any longer.

* * *

The whistle Trevelyan had used had failed to summon the raven that was supposed to answer to it, but it had fully redeemed itself if its call had resulted in _that_ instead. The horse had found them not two hundred paces away from the end of the tunnel, when Alexius had started doubting they would make it far with the snow. Trevelyan had descended into a bubbly fit of joy at his horse staying back for him.

“Maybe you should gallop to your people. If anything can get through this snow, it would be a tireless horse.” 

Staying and dying was what he had been prepared to accept after all, and he had helped enough. He should ask for a page from Trevelyan’s grimoire and the promise to see it delivered to Felix, and that was really all he had hoped to be granted in return for the Herald’s life.

“We can’t weight that much more than an armed chevalier, we could ride together,” Trevelyan was trying to get on the saddle without the strength to pull himself up. “I don’t think my ribs would handle galloping that well either.”

“I’ll hold onto the cantle then,” Alexius helped raise Trevelyan enough for him to straddle the horse and then got behind him, in a decidedly graceless manner. Keeping up the barrier above ground, while still draining together with the rejuvenating spell, was much easier to do, and the horse was moving at least twice as fast as they would have been able to, even at their best. He found himself wishing he could gain more from his blood, but ideally it ought to last for long enough to regenerate enough mana and switch to that before another cut was needed.

“Will you consider letting me send a letter to Felix if you can?” They had ridden in silence for maybe twenty minutes, and now Trevelyan attempted to turn around, only to give out a sharp hiss and slouch back to the front.

“Of course.” Although barely panted out, the reply sounded as if that was completely understood. “I didn’t mean to drive him away, he would have been safe with us.”

“Thank you.” He felt tears on his face this time, and was glad that they wouldn’t be witnessed.

* * *

The three templars surprised them from a gathering of trees to the right, and Alexius nearly fell off the horse trying to get enough room to move his hands and set up a more rigid barrier. He reached around to grab the reins, tried to spur the horse to move faster, but the spirit would have none of that. He jumped off then, and started casting, only to feel his grip on the Fade slipping. He held to it as much as he could, the staff not nearly strong enough for that, and the paralysis spells slowly dissolving, soon to let go of their prey.

“Cast your strongest spell underneath then,” Trevelyan spoke from right next to him, having dismounted the horse and made himself a target just standing there. “Cast!”

So Alexius did, the most devastating glyph of fire he could power with the little mana he had regenerated. It wouldn’t be nearly enough, the templars had already fended off a fire spell with their shields, the spell weakened by their aura. Even something erupting from underneath them wouldn’t make it through or be strong enough to do more than slightly warm up their armor. An underwhelming end for both of them was what Alexius was thinking, and then Trevelyan raised his marked hand, and the air above the glyph turned green. Alexius was nearly thrown back by the rush of Fade energy, and then the glyph activated. A veritable inferno that hid everything inside it and kept going and going, making his eyes dry, so that he had to keep blinking.

Trevelyan fell to the ground with a loud whine as the fire suddenly stopped, clutching his hand. Alexius wasn’t feeling much firmer on his feet himself. After one last glance at the place where the snow had vanished and only some metal parts were scattered around, he gingerly sat down.

“The staff.” The Herald managed to let out and Alexius handed it to him. The arm was glowing stronger than before, and was apparently also hurting more, but he had no idea what it was to even consider how it could be alleviated. Something of the Fade, or of the Veil, but also something that could control them. The Breach having been closed no longer filled Alexius with such incredulity. He had felt the Veil thinning, a sensation almost sickening in its strength, but the Veil was back to normal now.

Trevelyan cast something, then fell on his back in the snow, breathing heavily. The horse approached and lowered its head, the first movement it has seemingly made since the start of the battle.

“That was amazing,” Alexius finally spoke when the world had stopped spinning somewhat. “How does it work?”

“I don’t know,” the other mage gave a pained chuckle. “It’s instinctive. I only started using it like that during the attack on Haven, with all the templars around us.”

Alexius could only shake his head, mutely, and wonder what ritual exactly Trevelyan had stolen the mark from. It was either something completely new, or something so ancient that not even Tevinter knew of it.

“Is that what made it spread like that? Or was it closing the Breach?”

“Neither,” Trevelyan tried to sit up, then fell back. “Corypheus tried to remove it. He couldn’t, so he lost all his good mood.”

Neither could stand up even as the snow started seeping through the fabric of Alexius’ clothes. He felt drained, both body and magic not responding to his commands. The Herald was much in the same state, drifting in and out. They were going to freeze like that, but no barrier or other spells would come through. Alexius forced himself to concentrate and try to gather what energy he had left.

“Give me the dagger,” Trevelyan pushed himself up on his marked arm. Alexius handed it over, only now noticing that his fingers had gone stiff and barely able to hold anything. “I doubt I can focus on a spell of any duration, so can you use the blood?”

“Why?”

“Because you look quite dead already, and we are not dying here.”

* * *

The power from the blood had lasted for hours before they needed to stop again. Alexius wasn’t sure whether it was the lyrium in it or the connection this man had to the Fade. Trevelyan had dozed off during most of the time, and Alexius had given up on waking him up every once in a while. The hand he would place on his back indicated that his breathing was deep and even. Still, once they dismounted the horse, Alexius saw that he was much paler than one would have expected with the warmth and rejuvenation the spells had provided without interruption. He still declined Alexius going back to making a cut in his own arm.

“I have a favor to ask then,” Alexius sighed. “In addition to the one of allowing me to write to my son. It is perhaps… too much to ask for in light of my crimes.” Trevelyan nodded for him to continue, still holding the dagger. “Whatever this is seen as in the Imperium, I know what it means here. If the truth of it comes out, promise me death. Anything. Just not Tranquility.”

“I already promised that to Dorian.” Alexius swallowed a sob as Trevelyan continued. “I asked this of you, it hasn’t added anything to your crimes.” Then he made the second cut. “We will go faster this time, I can’t feel much of my body anymore.”

“I know you call it mercy in the south,” Alexius muttered as he was helping the other mage get back on the horse. “But it is not, it is the loss of the self and much worse than anything else.”

“I know that!” The horse felt its reins inexplicably pulled and turned its head in a ridiculously slow manner, as if confused or annoyed. “For your information, I share your opinion. Enough to convince a friend of it, and then she was killed. It wasn’t my choice to make.”

“I am sorry,” Alexius said once he had pulled himself up. “For your friend. And for the others. I told them to get out of Redcliffe, there was nothing more to be done.”

There was no reply and the reins didn’t move when the horse started a near gallop.

* * *

It was hours later when he saw people in the distance again, and this time even with his mana restored to a better level, there would be no help from Trevelyan. Alexius had kept him firmly on the back of the horse, and he was still breathing, but was otherwise unresponsive. Even Equinor had conceded control to Alexius, after the last of Trevelyan’s guidance had disappeared, and that had been yet another challenge in itself.

The people had noticed them as well, and were shouting something. Alexius halted the horse, waiting to see whether those were enemies or they had finally made it to the Inquisition camp. Ironically, as it was the last thing that would have normally given him any peace of mind, the Qunari silhouette among the rest of the shadows convinced him. He reached to roll down Trevelyan’s sleeve, the blood long dry, jumped off the horse and took it by the reins. The Qunari, one he had heard enough about even in his cell, was quickly approaching.

“It’s the Boss and the old Vint!” He yelled when he got to them, then with more care than one could expect lowered Trevelyan from the back of the horse and without sparing a second look at Alexius, ran back as the rest of the soldiers approached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a lot of time wondering just how much Alexius canonically knows of what was going on. In the end I decided on him at the very least not knowingly working together with a darkspawn, given what had happened to his wife and Felix. 
> 
> This will probably be the only chapter from his POV, although he will pop up every now and then, but not in leading role in the story.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another late chapter, and the last pre-Skyhold one. Time will move faster with most characters introduced now.

_19 Harvestmere, 9:41_

They finally set up camp in the third suitable valley they reached. The first one the red templars had obviously passed through, a thick line of flattened snow the evidence of that. Rather than continuing further south and risking meeting reinforcements, they turned west instead. The second suitable clearing wasn’t far off, but by then a storm was coming from the south and everyone was spurred to move even faster. It had been hours until they finally found another place and by then despite barriers, auras and healers, everyone’s feet were cold and hurting.

Dorian had stayed at the tail and by the time he emerged from the narrow path and threw one last glance at the snow covered slopes around him, the mages had already raised a few walls of ice around the place. Fires were springing out and the air turned to steam. When he approached he saw it was Fiona giving orders left and right, while patches of ground were being cleared of snow. Somewhere further in Cassandra was shouting her own orders to peasants and soldiers alike.

Fiona had remained guarded around Dorian, even though he had been to the magi camp a lot together with Ray. Now she just gave him a tired smile and continued organizing people, with him just standing there and not knowing what to do. Nobody had tried attacking him for being from Tevinter, and it didn’t seem like anyone was getting ready to do so. Then again the shock was only now starting to settle in, with people no longer being pushed to run. He wondered whether he should stay with the mages, at least they had that in common, or venture among the Fereldans to seek some of the Inquisition’s leadership.

“What will happen to them now?” He found himself asking the former Grand Enchanter, who was talking to a group of mages who looked even more worried than her.

“I will come with you to help heal and clean up the rest of the camp,” she nodded at the one standing closest, then turned to Dorian. “I wish I could tell.” Her voice had gone back to being calm and deep. Dorian thought it would have sounded fittingly stately, at least for who she had once been, but with her face having gone from dusky to ashen, lips bluish, it sounded nothing but sad.

“The Herald left a couple of letters, possibilities, as a backup plan,” she shook her head. “We knew that the alliance could end the moment the Breach was closed, but he hoped to be there when that happened. Now… we’ll need food and furs first. It will be dawn in another two hours, hopefully there will be enough rested people and enough wildlife.”

Dorian had been gripping the amulet in his pocket, thinking of all the backup plans that had been in place, aside from one in case of a dragon and an army of templars. Ray had been accepting of potential death from closing the Breach, but not of what had actually happened in the end. Dorian had seen people go to war and he had seen Felix accept death as well. That hadn’t been Ray during their last run through Haven, he had been just trapped, angry and exhausted.

“What happened in Haven?” Fiona, having taken two or three steps away to follow her mages, turned back to him.

“When the dragon descended, Trevelyan yelled for us to go and that blighted Qunari nearly broke my arm getting us away. We didn’t actually see anything else, although there were minutes of relative silence. Then the Herald must have fired the trebuchet and the avalanche came. He buried the hordes of red templars… and himself underneath a mountain of snow.” Dorian sighed. The heroic death would make for a fine story one day, perhaps.

* * *

Half an hour later, although many were up, healing, keeping up barriers and organizing, most of the people were asleep. Dorian had crossed the camp a couple of times. Mages clearly made more than half of the survivors, and whether due to their numbers or to the healing, there at least didn’t seem to be any animosity yet. The groups were still pretty clearly separated, and Dorian had only seen a few of Leliana’s and Bull’s people among the mages. The mages’ side of the camp was also a lot quieter, with both less crying and praying. Some asked him about the Herald, and Dorian just shook his head, not knowing what to tell them.

“I am sorry, this is about as good as I can describe him! He wasn’t human, that is for sure!” Cullen was speaking to an extremely angry looking Seeker when a scout led Dorian into what amounted to half a tent, put together from various materials to house the Inquisition’s leaders. The Iron Bull was also there, as were Solas and Varric. Dorian looked questioningly at the latter.

“Our Commander briefly saw this Elder One. It appears we might not be facing a misguided countryman of yours after all. Or the red lyrium got to him as well. All we have to go on is ‘tall and not human’. The Archdemon is a different matter.”

“We don’t know if that was an Archdemon,” Leliana said. “There have been no reports of darkspawn hordes, and neither do we know of an Archdemon being controlled.”

The conversation went back and forth, with barely anything to grasp on and only a vague idea of how to move from where they were. Nobody was quire sure of the latter either, apart from an unclear “southwest of Haven”.

“If you write his story, Varric, you better make him like he was. None of this tepid plea for piece and love.” Dorian scoffed once they had left the shelter after Josephine had read Trevelyan’s will. “He sounded nothing like that.”

“He sounded exactly like that,” Bull said. “Once you took away the angry defiant mage bits and poured some Andraste and your Maker to fill in the rest. Not a lot of room for interpretation in that will of his.”

“The Qunari has got it there, Sparkler,” Varric chuckled. “Take it from a writer, the Chantry might end up hating that piece.”

* * *

_20 Harvestmere, 9:41_

It was still dark when Bull left the fire to go on a hunt and “reconnaissance”. Varric had dozed off and, to Dorian’s irritation, started snoring. Sera had long fallen asleep, curled up under a fur cloak as opposed to her usual sprawled sleeping pose. That left only Blackwall to talk to, and Dorian didn’t have a whole lot to say to him, so he picked himself up, suppressed a yawn and took to wandering the camp anew. He noticed Solas and Madame de Fer not far from the Inquisition’s tent, each looking straight ahead, in different directions. “Dreaming and scheming,” Dorian thought with almost a smile, and approached the tent. Josephine was the only one inside, raising her head from the sheet of paper to greet him.

“Ser Pavus,” she gestured at the nearby fur on the ground and Dorian sat down. She had been crying at some point, the kohl cleaned from around her eyes, which were still reddened. Or perhaps that was on account of trying to write in the light of a single oil-candle.

“I could summon a wisp, if you’d like.” Dorian had been pleasantly surprised to see one at her office in Haven on the couple of occasions he’d gone in there.

“It will be dawn soon,” she shook her head. “And I don’t know what I should write,” she pointed at the paper, “to his family.”

Dorian had no idea how Ray felt about his family. Beyond the vague disappointment he had once voiced, there had been no further mention of them. He had listened with interest to what Dorian had divulged about his own predicament, but hadn’t reciprocated with a story of his own. After spending some time among the rest of the mages, Dorian had decided not to ask. Mages didn’t have families in the south, it seemed, and as much of an exception Ray might have been, his was unlikely to be a happy story.

“Do you believe he was holy?” When Josephine looked at him in surprise, he continued, “Do others? I mean, those last words of his, are they going to affect anything?”

“I should much like to believe so, on all three counts.” Josephine’s smile was melancholy. “He didn’t believe it of himself, but the people around him certainly did. Hence the desperation that we will need to address soon. I thought it would be easier, but he was also a friend and now… his story will turn into something else. I will miss him… we all will.”

She put the paper and quill aside and pulled in the fur cloak draped over her shoulders. Dorian decided it was safe enough even in this part of the camp, and summoned a small flame in the air to warm the inside of the tent.

“He did that a lot,” Josephine smiled again. “And was so happy when some of the other mages dared to as well. We will do what we can for them, but it will be hard. They placed all their trust in him, and he always said the most important thing was that they felt safe as allies. I don’t know if we can give them that, if things will hold up well while we are trying to find where to go.”

Dorian himself didn’t know whether this fragile tolerance would stay once everyone woke up stranded and hungry in the snow, and had to wonder whether he still had a place in this Inquisition, willing as he was to help against Venatori and whomever was behind all of this. He certainly was an even more unpalatable persona for the Fereldans than the rest of the mages.

Josephine had closed her eyes as Dorian drifted off into desperately trying to recall the pleasant and enjoyable moments from the last few days. He had almost managed to push away all thought of Felix as well when Leliana walked in and put an end to that effort. Similarly to Fiona she had seemingly lost the will to glare in suspicion, nodded at him, cast a look at Josephine, then dropped to the ground. A raven flew down from her shoulder and Leliana spread a dozen curiously looking jewels for it to wander around and inspect.

Dorian himself was pretty intrigued by them. They were obviously enchanted, some of them permeating a faint light, others vibrating, but they were unlike any enchantments he had ever seen. They were dwarven-made to start with, and he had learned that unlike in Tevinter this wasn’t the norm in the south where mostly Tranquil crafted enchantments. But they were also dwarven jewelry, expensive looking, too, and even in Tevinter that was nearly unheard of. Not that there was much demand for it, but dwarves still provided mostly functional crafting rather than sharing their culture.

“What are these for, if I may ask?”

Leliana took out some sort of a dial of concentric circles and rotated the disks. At once the stones spread in all directions, with some floating up, and the raven jumped into action chasing them. Some sort of a dwarven toy, perhaps? 

“They have different patterns, for training birds.”

Dorian lifted an eyebrow. Birds hardly needed training by people on how to run and fly, and dwarves were unlikely to be the ones to try that. Those from Orzammar didn’t have any, and the surface ones seemed more into trade.

“I admit it is the first time I’ve seen anything like them,” he said at last, not sure just how willing the spymaster was to explain herself.

“They are one of a kind. A royal commission for Baron Plucky and a friend of his.” The Baron, because that was obviously him, and now Dorian did recognize him, flew back to Leliana and perched on her shoulder, abandoning the rest of the toys and nuzzling into her shawl. “Sometimes I think he really understands.”

“I gather the Baron is much more than Trevelyan’s raven if he has had kings commission toys for him?”

“That he is,” Leliana sighed softly and Dorian wasn’t sure whether he should be saying anything else or running from the place as quickly as possible. He was seeing a different side of her, and he was pretty sure once she snapped back, she wouldn’t be happy about it. “He used to belong to another mage. One who might be dead as well.”

The moment of snapping back came right after those words, but luckily it didn’t spell trouble for Dorian, at least for now.

“Please leave us alone now. I wish to pray.”

Dorian was quick to fulfill her request and leave the two women and the possibly ill omen of a raven. He walked back to the fire to find even Blackwall asleep and the flames dying, and wondered whether he ought to tend to them with magic or finally allow himself some sleep, if he could fall asleep. The sky was getting lighter, and that meant it was already pretty late in the morning. The decision had been to leave at midday, especially if it turned out that there wasn’t much to be hunted for food where they were now.

Dorian leaned back and closed his eyes.

* * *

He was close to slipping into a dream when voices around him jerked him back awake. It couldn’t have been hours, and he confirmed it so when he opened his eyes. The daylight was still dim, even though the stars were completely gone from the sky. People were flowing to the other side of the camp, mostly sounding confused and asking the ones around them what was going on. Dorian groaned, picked up his staff in case there was danger, and moved with them. Nobody was attacking him on sight, so it was unlikely for what was going on to be the first confrontation with the mages.

He had almost reached the edge of the camp when Cassandra’s voice sounded an authoritative “Clear a path!” and Dorian was pushed back aside by the crowd moving as one. “It’s the Herald! The Herald is alive!” the whispers traveled to him already turning into a hesitant cheer and he pushed through without regard for the angry expletives thrown at him. He stumbled through the last few and came face to face with Trevelyan, pale and unconscious in Bull’s arms, his left hand engulfed in green light. Dorian froze for a second, his mind drawing a blank. In the next moment someone’s iron grip was on his arm once again, pulling him aside to let the Qunari through, and he found himself facing Cullen. 

“You take care of him,” the Commander barked, turning Dorian around and giving him a push. Some twenty paces away Alexius stood between two of Bull’s men, Trevelyan’s undead horse next to him. Orders echoed to bring healers and all lyrium at hand to the Council’s tent, and all but Alexius, the two Chargers and Dorian flowed inward into the camp to be as close to the Herald as they could get.

Healers meant that Ray was alive indeed. Above all Dorian wanted to ignore Cullen’s command and follow the others, but then again Alexius was standing there. He was the best source on what had happened for the time being, provided Dorian could bring himself to talk to him. It had been a conversation he had dreaded enough to postpone indefinitely while at Haven.

“They brought in two rams,” one of the Chargers said, gruffly, “guess it will be up to us to skin them now that nobody is going to do any work. Food will take a while.”

“Have the horse scare some into helping us,” the other one laughed and Dorian saw that Equinor was pretty assuredly cutting a path through the multitude.

He thought about following it to Ray once again, then looked at Alexius. The magister looked tired, his face thinner than Dorian remembered, but otherwise healthy enough. While Ray was doing maker knows how. Alexius sat down next to an abandoned pile of furs and proceeded to drape one over his shoulders and relight a fire in the space where another mage had kept one until recently.

“You forgot about me then.” There was a slight mocking edge to his voice and that had Dorian make up his mind about difficult conversations, take the two steps to the fire and drop down as well.

“I thought about getting you out, if you must know. But then I remembered that more would die if I ran to you. Death was something you seemed to have chosen anyway.”

“And I still welcome it,” Alexius shook his head. “I don’t want to outlive my child, Dorian.”

Dorian cursed in his head as Alexius’ voice and expression broke down. None of the guilt should be his, but that didn’t stop it from flooding him. If he had stayed so much could have been averted. If not for the world, then at least for Felix.

“Felix left for Minrathous, he’s going to try to get the Magisterium to pay some attention to what is going on.”

Alexius nodded but didn’t speak another word. In his head Dorian was going through scenarios of what had happened, but never quite managing to find one that fit, so in the end he gave up on waiting for the other to speak first.

“How is Trevelyan, is he going to be all right? What happened in Haven?”

“That story is too strange for anyone but him to tell. Too… terrible if true. As for the Herald, I did all I could to keep him alive, but it is in the healers’ hands now.”

“You did all you could to keep him alive?” Dorian echoed. “The man you tried to remove from existence? What did you ask of him, Alexius? What sort of deal did you make?”

Alexius almost snorted as one corner of his mouth turned up.

“What deals can you make with a stray cat that hisses at you, then crouches down until you bring it milk, only to hiss at you some more?” When none of this made any sense to Dorian and that much must have been clear from the expression on his face, Alexius sighed. “He wanted to live. We were both going to die, and he really wanted to live.”

Dorian shook his head. This couldn’t be as simple as a child who wanted to live unlike the one who had accepted death.

“The avalanche… are there more survivors in Haven? Are the templars on our tracks?”

“We ran into a few templars, but it was a long way from the village. Trevelyan had jumped into an opening to the corridors underneath the place and dragged himself to where my cell was. I don’t think anyone above ground survived, the impact of the avalanche was strong enough to collapse a lot of even what was underground.”

Alexius shuddered, then loosened the furs around himself to pull out a ridiculous makeshift staff. The next moment the fire was gone and instead of it a warming barrier and a rejuvenating aura sprang forth.

“This and moving some rocks was really the extent of my assistance to your Herald over the hours of our journey. In return I get one letter to Felix.” Alexius smiled without a hint of ridicule this time.

“It seems he knows how to drive a bargain!” Dorian stood up. Alexius ought to be fine for now, although he was probably safer away from the rest of the mages. Most of the people didn’t know his face or the degree of his involvement. 

“That he does.” More than Alexius’ suddenly hard voice it was the gesture that stopped Dorian in his tracks. Alexius had pulled up his sleeve to reveal two long, recently closed cuts in his forearm. Dorian’s mouth went dry and he sat down again.

“Maker’s breath, Alexius!”

“I’m not showing you this so that you get your smallclothes in a twist, Dorian. That was the price for mana on our way, and he was pragmatic enough to ask for it.” He rolled his sleeve back down. “However, there are two cuts just like these on his right arm, and that might not go well if they aren’t healed before people start asking questions.”

Dorian threw a worried look towards the other side of the camp, but everything was quiet aside from the occasional louder verses from the Chant of light.

“Why ask for _his_ blood as well?” Dorian hissed desperately. If that had been the price, then it should have been Alexius’ to pay.

“I didn’t,” his former mentor shrugged. “He offered, with quite the air of finality. It was, again, the reasonable thing to do. I would have bled myself dry to get enough mana from myself. I admit, I expected a colder welcome, but it seems he’s still the Herald of Andraste to all of them.” Alexius spared a flouting glance at the people gathered.

“And you know he isn’t?” Dorian scoffed. “The mark is magic, but the rest of him…”

“The rest of him is a mouthy mage who is defying expectations.” Alexius smile was inexplicably satisfied. “The mark on his hand, however… it is more than just magic, Dorian. It is like an origin of the Fade, or the Veil, or something else primordial.”

* * *

Dorian walked through the sitting crowd with some difficulty but without being stopped by anyone, then fade-stepped through the warming barrier that was cast over the main tent. It had been re-purposed as a clinic, although by now almost everyone had left. In front of it Josephine and Leliana were asleep, propped against each other, and Cassandra was nearly there herself, only giving him one surprisingly mellow look before her eyelids dropped closed as well.

He stepped in just as a young mage, one that he had been briefly introduced with, was finishing a healing spell, then yawned.

“This is enough, dear, he will be fine. Go get some food and rest,” Vivienne, sitting to the right of Trevelyan told her, then, upon noticing Dorian, stood up and moved toward him. She was no spirit healer, but Dorian had known she had some healing skills, and wondered whether she had been with the healers from the start. She probably had a decent enough understanding of cuts in one’s arm. Dorian had to somehow split his worried glaces between Ray lying there motionless and Vivienne approaching.

“Don’t worry, darling. He got a healing the likes of which kings rarely receive.” Whether her smile as she moved away was knowing or expressed anything at all, he couldn’t tell.

“He… m-might get a bit sick when he wakes up,” the healer stammered. “From the bleeding on the inside. But we mended everything, my lord.” 

The girl was nervously bunching up the front of her robes, looking between Dorian and the cot, and apparently Solas as well, whom Dorian had mistaken for some luggage with the cloak covering all of the elf apart from his face. Equinor was also there, he noticed, in the back, being its unmoving self. 

“Did the Herald… did he really kill all those templars in Haven?” There was awe in her voice and Dorian simply nodded. “And then rode to us on his spirit horse?”

“It’s a really good story, isn’t it?” Dorian smiled for the first time in hours, and the mage grinned in turn.

“Yes! The Maker really watches over him! Ah… er… he might be sick when he wakes up, it will look worse than it is,” she frowned, looking confused for a second. “The bandages are only for support, but he mustn’t move too much in the next hour or two. Master Solas said the Herald tended to sleep on his stomach, please keep him on his back for now. The Grand Enchanter should be back soon as well, I’ll tell her… The Herald might also be a little lightheaded, not only the blood but he still has a lot of lyrium in it.”

She shut up all of the sudden after that litany and exhaled sharply, her fists finally letting go of the robe.

“But he will be all right.”

Dorian stared as she left, all flustered, and wondered just what kind of tales would be making the rounds after this. Equinor was looking at a raise to “spirit horse” from “er, horse” at the very least.

Finally free to approach Ray, he did so, sat down where Vivienne had been before and smiled. Ray’s right shoulder was bandaged, but the left one was bare, the fur blanket ending slightly under it. Dorian had only ever seen the man buttoned up to the neck, and his first thought was one of surprise at the lack of freckles. “There goes that fantasy,” he thought with absurd clarity. He shook his head at his own ridiculous timing and carefully pulled out Ray’s arm from under the furs. The skin on his forearm was unbroken, and no scars remained.

“I am surprised you disapprove, Dorian,” Solas’ voice made him jump and nearly drop Ray’s hand. “You also do not practice blood magic. Is it not popular in Tevinter?”

“While we’re sharing surprises, you’ve done a lot less dancing naked in the moonlight than expected.” Dorian made a conscious effort to chase away the worry from his voice. “I wanted to see you make flowers bloom with your song, just once.”

He sighed and pushed the arm back under the covers after confirming a stable pulse as well. He thought he had been doing his best to get along with Solas, but unless they were discussing strictly magic, every conversation between them ended with a jab at Dorian or his country. Even half of the conversations about magic ended up as that.

“It is not disapproval, if that is what it took to save his life. I am more surprised _you_ don’t seem to disapprove.”

“Magic is magic.” Solas shrugged. “Blood magic matters little to me. I do not use it, but I do not think it evil. Provided it remains a tool, not a crutch… nor a passion.”

It was hard to argue that with Ray lying here alive when not an hour earlier everyone had been trying to figure out what his death was going to lead to. His hand had been warm, his face had regained its color, and they had washed the blood from his hair. Ray just looked asleep… he was just sleep, albeit also recovering. It had been less than a full day since Dorian had sat in the cabin in Haven, waiting for him to wake up. And sure enough the camp beyond the council’s tent felt livelier again, even if most were falling asleep. 

Solas had drifted off again as well, that seemed to be what he usually did. When Fiona came, Dorian let her take his place to cast more of her healing and mix some of the herbs, and went to find a scout or someone else to ask to escort Alexius to a safer place in camp. Their conversation was far from over and part of him wanted to go get the full story before Leliana had demanded it from the magister. The other part, much stronger right now, wanted to get back to the tent, so he followed that.

* * *

The “being sick” the healer had mentioned did indeed look worse than it was, and while Dorian had been warned about it, Ray hadn’t. Dorian woke up from the slumber he’d been falling in and out of to find him sitting on the cot, looking dazed and panicked, with a blooded hand pressed to his mouth.

“Kaffas! Ray, stay calm, you’re all right!” Dorian jumped to grab the shallow basin lying a few steps away, then knelt back and put it under Ray’s chin. “It’s the blood that remained from the healed internal wounds, it just needs out.”

He pulled at the hand insistently, then closed his eyes momentarily to keep himself from feeling sick as the bottom of the basin was splattered with blood, both coagulated chunks and liquid. When Dorian felt Ray’s hands gripping the basin as well and pushing it down for him to bend further, retching and coughing, Dorian let go and took some bandage fabric to soak in water.

“We made it?” Ray’s voice wheezed horsely. “Alexius?”

“He’s around, don’t worry about that.” Dorian swiped the fabric first across Ray’s mouth, then under it. “How are you feeling?”

“Hey.” Ray was still looking mostly dazed and Dorian put a hand at his back in case he was feeling dizzy as well.

“Hey you.” Dorian muttered and dropped the bandages to remove the basin. “You really should stop making me have to tell you that you didn’t die.”

“Equinor.” Dorian lifted his eyes to see the horse had wandered close to them, head lowered. “It really is my horse. It found us. Where is Solas?”

“He must have wandered off at some point. Do you want to lie back down while I go tell the others?”

Instead of a reply Ray’s weight suddenly fell on his hand and he slowly lowered it to the cot.

“Do you hurt anywhere?”

“My head,” Ray frowned and lifted his left hand to look at the mark, now pale and barely noticeable, to which Equinor reacted by inching even closer.

“Just stay like that, I will get Fiona.”

Dorian jumped again and hurried outside, almost bumping into a dour-looking Leliana. She only spared a glance at the tent’s interior before her eyes widened and all trace of severity vanished from her face. She promptly pushed Dorian to the side, told him to “tell Josie”, which took him a second to process, then flew in.

* * *

He had made the rounds to find Fiona and Josephine in less than five minutes, but when he got back to the tent himself, one of Leliana’s people stopped him at the entrance. She only let Josephine pass, who was carrying a bowl of soup.

“Sister Leliana’s orders.”

Fiona appeared from the tent a few minutes later, and turned to the scout first.

“Please have someone bring paper and writing utensils, both here and… to the prisoner.”

The scout signed to another of her people, and Fiona turned to Dorian.

“I understand Magister Alexius was indeed instrumental to saving the Herald’s life. I have quelled all rumors among my people on how he did it.” Her expression was sour, but Dorian thought it more likely connected to Alexius contributing rather than the nature of the magic used, so he simply nodded as she walked away.

Cassandra and Cullen appeared from the left at the same time as Solas did from the right, and the scout let them in as well, leaving Dorian staring dejectedly into the fire outside. The rest of the camp had was fairly quiet, still mostly asleep or unaware that Ray had woken up. Dorian kept throwing worried looks at the tent but there was no way he could hear anything that was being said inside. It seemed like an hour had passed although the short shadows hadn’t grown significantly shorter. 

“I am going to kill that dwarf!” Cassandra threw back the flap of the tent, or it threw itself to get away from her as she jumped out, then practically ran into the camp to kill a dwarf.

She came back only a few minutes later, during which nothing had moved to or from the tent, dragging Varric with her to the point of almost lifting his feet off the ground.

* * *

“The only thing yelling gets us is a headache. Another headache.”

Dorian thought it wouldn’t be long until the rest of the people grew panicked as well if the leaders continued their loud argument. The camp had been jubilant once their Herald of Andraste had finally emerged in the late afternoon, looking fully alive even if the staff they had given him had actually served more as a walking stick. Now he was sitting cross-legged in the tent, more or less calmly eating dinner. After the questioning Varric had been subjected to had ended, the Inquisition leaders had left the tent, only Josephine being kind enough to inform Dorian that the Herald needed to recover more and had been given some sleeping medicine.

The council Dorian had been called to half an hour later had almost been worse than the hours during which he had believed Ray dead. The quick drawing of Corypheus, the tale of what Corypheus claimed to be…

“Why does that make you angry?”

Because he had joked once about one-upping that whole “starting the Blight” thing, but the joke had been more serious than the premise then. Now having started the Blight seemed more true than ever and he had idiot countrymen who would happily follow Corypheus down that path again.

“Because the Imperium is my home. I knew what I was taught couldn’t be the whole truth, but I assumed there had to be a kernel of it. Somewhere.”

“He claims the Golden City wasn’t golden at all. Premises vacated already.” Ray shrugged. “If we are going to believe him the rest of his story, why reject that outright?”

“You really do enjoy being a heretic.” Dorian smiled in spite of himself. “The few historical records do have the darkspawn appear around that time, however.”

“Needn’t be the Maker’s doing though.”

“Ray,” Dorian said softly. “You are not cursed. None of those people outside believe you to be, to them you are chosen, and after everything you have done…”

“I don’t care about that now!” Ray snarled. “I wasn’t chosen when I was eight, I didn’t have any contributions or crimes then.” He sighed. “Sorry. I… understand why you care like you do. It’s just, we already knew the Circles here were more danger to mages than anywhere else. If Solas is even remotely right about what he says about spirits, if Corypheus is right about the Black City… just how many things is the Chantry wrong about? We saw what Corypheus’ future looks like, we have to prevent it.” Ray shook his head. “Corypheus is the perfect enemy for the Chantry, but I hate the Chantry more than I hate him.”

Dorian laughed once again, louder this time.

“Oh, you are glorious.” Naive, but adorable. “Fully committed to walking the line of heresy?”

“I never let them use me as much as they wanted to in the Circle,” Ray smiled slyly before his expression turned serious again. “There are the mages, of course, and the rifts, but the thought of the Chantry helping itself to my story was a large part of what kept me alive. Which is also why I won’t let the Inquisition strike out Alexius’ role in it.”

This served to remind Dorian why the two of them were now alone while the Council was discussing what was to be done. All four had wanted to take Alexius out of that story entirely, even in exchange for taking him out of the other stories as well.

“Ray… why didn’t you tell me about the Tranquil?”

They had seen an Ocularum on their ride to Kinloch Hold, and Dorian had joked about the skull on a stick and the charming customs around the place. He had gotten the actual story from Alexius a few hours ago, almost by accident.

“Because it’s awful? And you are not responsible. I _was_ going to tell you,” Ray insisted. “I was. The Oculara are everywhere, from before Alexius arrived, and the time magic was not affecting anything else outside of Redcliffe.”

“So he betrayed yet another of his principles by passing on that order! The mercy I asked for him…”

“I meant that, and still do. You didn’t need to ask for it, and neither did he. I will try to get them to spare his life… I don’t know if I will be able to. But I will walk out on all of this if Tranquility is used, and they will know of it.”

“Ray…”

The flap of the tent moved to admit Mother Giselle. The look she gave Dorian could very well match the coldness of the collective snow on all of the surrounding mountains. She hadn’t appeared accepting of him before, it was no wonder that she would be even less so now, with the knowledge of who the enemy was. All of these people likely would feel the same once some semblance of a statement had been prepared to let them know.

“Herald of Andraste… If I may have a few minutes of your time.”

Dorian didn’t need to antagonize her right now, so he gave Ray a reassuring smile against the Chantry dragon that was demanding his time, and left.

* * *

Judging by the expression on Solas’ face, Dorian was sure the elf was looking at all of this with something similar to what Dorian himself was feeling. The same feeling Ray had seemed to harbor when Mother Giselle had started singing and others had joined in almost immediately. The Inquisition leaders were quick to it as well, finally having quieted down, exhausted by the futility of their quarreling. Mother Giselle knew how to rally with faith and show the power it held, that she certainly did. 

But then she handed the power over, or perhaps knew that she was only lending it, that this was needed now more than theological technicalities. People started kneeling, not just some of the mages, but proper mundane southerners knelt before a mage, it was surreal.

Dorian caught Ray’s eyes, a mix of wonder, apprehension and triumph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding date change, I've decided to have people consider it a new day at sunrise, literal day-break. There have been a few references to midnight as a symbolical change at the very least, but it just seems too "scientific" for Thedas.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter of fluff and feels, living out my dream of a companion Josephine.

_21 Harvestmere, 9:41_

Josephine suppressed a scowl of discomfort as she crossed the camp to the council’s tent. The wind had stopped at the worst possible time and the air was filled with the stench of newly tempered pelts and leather, and of gutted rams and fish. The valley had proven rich and fruitful, and they had also found a stream some half an hour away. There was no telling how lucky they would be going north, so nearly everyone was going to stay here a full two days and prepare as much provisions as possible. Leliana probably wasn’t going to like it, but Josephine fully intended to ask to go with the forward scouts.

In front of the tent Ray was trying to melt Baron Plucky’s heart with a fish head and Leliana’s enchanted toys. Whether because he was highly skeptical of the offerings, or completely lost as to what to grab first, the raven wasn’t taking any of the baits. Consequently, Ray gave Josephine a morose look of defeat, and she was about to say something well-measured about occupying one’s mind with such trivial problems in the face of their situation. The smell in the air reminded her that Ray wasn’t the only one doing so. Of course, nobody was looking at her like she had all the answers either.

“He’s not easy to impress,” Ray gathered the toys and put them back into the richly decorated leather pouch. “Fiona just went in, Leliana was already waiting.”

Josephine nodded and threw one last glance at the papers she was carrying. Corypheus’ name had already made the rounds, but people still knew almost nothing else aside from it. Breaking the story wasn’t going to be easy, especially not to the common folk.

“We are mostly going to focus on Tevinter and the darkspawn,” Josephine sighed. “Most know that the Imperium was involved, and we can hope that the darkspawn threat was recent enough in Ferelden to unify the people.”

Unfortunately these two things also met in the tale of the Second Sin, and even if she’d had the wrong person, Cassandra’s initial assumption had been painfully close to the truth. An assumption largely made due to the suspect at the time having been a mage. Hopefully Fiona would be able to prepare her people well enough for them to remain calm if there was unrest.

Ray followed her into the tent, leaving the fish head to Baron Plucky.

* * *

After hearing both Ray’s and Varric’s information on Corypheus, Fiona gave out a shaky sigh, eyes on the drawing of the enemy.

“The High Priest of Dumat… the Conductor.” She murmured. “Corypheus.”

“He could have been lying,” Ray offered, but Fiona shook her head.

“I am afraid at least part of the Chant’s story is correct in this. Lady Leliana,” she raised her eyes to the spymaster’s. “Are we talking in complete secrecy?”

Leliana frowned, then nodded. Josephine was trying to recall as much as she could about what the Chant said about the Magisters Sidereal, but those weren’t the usual verses sisters would recite in the chantry.

“The first time the Warden-Commander visited me, it was in connection with a sentient darkspawn she had killed in the arling of Amaranthine.”

Fiona was speaking mostly to Leliana, it seemed, before Ray interrupted.

“The talking darkspawn! The rumors were true then?”

“The rumors were true,” Fiona nodded. “But the darkspawn people witnessed talking had been merely a servant. Its master… the one that led Amell to me, I had met more than twenty years prior to that during my time in the Order. He called himself the Architect.”

“The Architect?” Leliana echoed. “Architect of the Works of Beauty? The High Priest of Urthemiel?”

“I was unaware of such a connection at the time. Whether more became known in Amaranthine, I do not know. Amell didn’t divulge more than was needed for her inquiry. But unlike what Varric Tethras says about Corypheus, the Architect couldn’t control Warden mages when I met him. Neither could he hold back other Wardens from trying to kill him. Amell never alluded to him being able to do so either.”

Ray was looking at Fiona mildly scandalized.

“You are a Warden _and_ you know the Hero of Ferelden?”

“Mine is… an unusual circumstance, Herald. Normally one is part of the Order until death, but long ago I found myself stripped of what made me a Warden. They tried to reinitiate me, but nothing worked. Nor could they figure out how it happened.” Fiona fell silent for a few seconds. “Corypheus should have no way to control me in the way you described.”

“What about the Hero of Ferelden? Do you know where she is, whether she could help?”

Fiona threw a questioning glance at Leliana who hadn’t said another word.

“Perhaps she knows more about Corypheus, she’s the Warden-Commander! How he survived at least, or…” Ray wasn’t letting loose, and he wasn’t looking at Josephine so that she could give him a sign to stop the barrage.

“I doubt it!” Leliana cut him off. “She wasn’t Weisshaupt’s favorite child. And even if she knew, I cannot contact her now.”

“You know her as well?” Corypheus seemingly completely forgotten at this point, Ray’s eyes grew wider. “Why is it I never hear about these things?”

“I guess people don’t gossip about just everybody!” Leliana stood up, crossed her arms and gave him one of those intimidating glares that usually made people scurry away. It didn’t work on Ray, however, who looked more curious and confused than he looked scared at this point, staring up at her.

“About the Hero of Ferelden?”

“About me!”

Some words were like the stone doors to a tomb, putting a definite end to a conversation. Leliana’s had been words like those, and Ray’s eyes immediately fell to the ground, only to steal into Josephine’s direction not a second later, looking for answers there. She shook her head with as subtle a movement she thought he would understand, and that seemed to have worked for the moment.

“Back to the matter at hand.” Leliana sat back down and turned to Fiona, who had stayed out of this without betraying a feeling. “What was the Architect after?”

“That is…,” Fiona cast a look a lot more authoritative than the ones she had held until now, then turned hesitant, searching Leliana’s face.

“Amell didn’t say anything, it was the Order’s secret.” Leliana admitted.

“I swore not to speak of those secrets myself. Allow me to say that the Architect’s plan, all those years ago, had nothing to do with Tevinter, the Fade or the Black City. It was entirely a Grey Warden matter. I prefer to err on the side of caution with the Order’s secrets, but should more come to light that necessitates I reveal those secrets, I will do so at that time.”

Leliana wasn’t one to willingly stay hostage of having to keep supplying with information, but to Josephine’s surprise she simply nodded.

“That will do for now, then.” Her voice was without the edge from before, the tone lost its fullness. They left the story of the Architect slide away and only briefly discussed what the mages should be told. In the end it was left largely in Fiona’s hands and Leliana concluded the meeting. “You two should go talk to them now. Herald, we will talk to the rest of the people after dinner.”

Still looking mostly confused about Leliana, Ray rose, picking up the pouch with the dwarven stones to hand to her.

“Keep these for now. Baron Plucky should learn to stay closer to you, we will be using him as a link when you leave tomorrow morning as well.”

“Thank you!” All apprehension gone from his face, he threw yet another of those Satinalia smiles and ran off after Fiona, with the spoils from the meeting in hand.

* * *

“He’s a bit like the Baron himself,” Josephine chuckled as she moved closer to Leliana.

“You’d think he would have had more things like those with his birth.” Leliana lowered he shawl. “Will you braid my hair for me?”

“Of course,” Josephine stood up on her knees and picked a thin strand of hair, for the single slim braid Leliana had worn during the Blight. “He said they weren’t allowed many personal enchantments, and he wasn’t a senior enchanter until Kirkwall. That’s why he has all those spells for simple things. Not that those were strictly allowed, from what I gathered.”

“Aileas used to collect pretty much everything. She would give it away, most of it anyway, what she didn’t accidentally break. But first she would play with every new trinket until she had tired of it. I guess it comes with having had little of their own.”

Leliana’s head dropped forward and Josephine readjusted fingers to finish the braid.

“Josie… I will send for what gold I have in Val Royeaux. If we make it out of here… pick it up when you go to Halamshiral.”

There was little more than a week until Satinalia and Duke de Montfort’s party, Josephine doubted she would make it. The nobles would only increase their numbers in Halamshiral either way, in preparation for Empress Celene’s move into the Winter Palace. Not all was lost. Still, being unable to attend at the duke’s personal invitation would be unfortunate.

“Also… some more of my things,” Leliana continued. “Celene won’t be at the duke’s party, she rarely attends those, but I will keep listening on when she plans to emerge. We should move the majority of our people to Halamshiral. And the sword. And ourselves, if this fortress of Solas’ doesn’t pan out.”

Josephine tied a band around the end of the braid and Leliana promptly pulled up the scarf to hide it. The Inquisition wasn’t enough to keep her friend’s mind off worrying about Amell, and the news about Corypheus being able to affect Warden mages was surely on top of the list now. Yet there didn’t seem to be anything they could do about it.

“I think they will agree… the sword, I mean. He might have already held it for what that matters to the people last night. The Chantry will recoil in horror, of course.” Josephine shook her head. “He might have been closer to the truth when he joked about a schism… if he was joking.”

“If it were up to him, I’m sure he’d see it fall and shatter. The Chantry has been near-genocide to the mages, he’d only lift a finger if it were to push it from a cliff. But it won’t come to that. If the Chantry falls, Corypheus won’t need for Celene to be gone, the chaos will be everywhere, much stronger than now.”

“You weren’t lying when you said this job would be interesting, Leliana,” Josephine smiled warily. “I will need to prepare to appease the first torrent of accusations. That is, if he accepts in the first place.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage to rein them in, Josie,” Leliana waved her hand. “He will accept. Just prod him around a bit.”

“I think,” the moment was too good for Josephine to pass on, “that I’d better join the scouting group with him then.”

Leliana’s brow furrowed, then relaxed. Perhaps she didn’t think the danger that great. They would have some of her scouts, some of Bull’s men, and of course, half a dozen mages without counting Ray and Solas themselves.

“Then let me be the one to stand next to him when we tell the people about Corypheus. If I’ll be the one around, at least they will know from the start not to indulge in dangerous gossip.”

Josephine nodded, maybe that was for the best. She hoped people truly did take note and never started anything in the first place.

“Oh, Josie…” Leliana smirked. “Your shoes are nearly ruined, you’ll do better on horseback indeed.”

“It is the smell, actually,” Josephine smiled and handed her the carefully crafted speech on introducing an ancient Tevinter magister to the masses.

* * *

_22 Harvestmere, 9:41_

How Ray got along with both Solas and Sera while the two were no more than twenty feet apart, was quite a mystery to Josephine. Or rather a pleasant surprise. He wasn’t a bad diplomat, if only among friends. She could understand the desire to talk with Solas. She’d leave the two alone when magic was discussed, but outside of that topic the man had the most _fascinating_ stories. Sera was a different matter.

“No! Impossible things aren’t surprises.” Her voice came from the front, upset. “A surprise would be, ‘Oh, I stepped in dog shite.’ No one says, ‘Oh, a magister god monster. I’m surprised.’”

“Just after I had managed to avoid stepping into any dog shite all throughout our journeys. What was I thinking going in unprepared?”

Josephine sighed at the crudeness, then attributed it to an adjustment of appropriacy.

“I mean, you’re ‘touched,’ right? Who knows what’s going on in your head.”

There were no adjustments of appropriacy by Sera. Maker knew how that behavior was going to reflect against the veneration they would need to foster.

“He seems to enjoy new experiences,” Solas’ voice startled her out of her thoughts. She must have been frowning. “Fortunately, Sera is not the only experience he enjoys.”

Josephine had to admit that much was true, and encouraging. Nearly the entire early afternoon had been spent teaching the Herald to speak Orlesian, and the progress had been frankly astounding. Much of the success could be traced back to one of the enchanters accompanying them being Orlesian herself, and being able to quickly supply words and sentences Ray would have been able to read already. The enchanter was also unexpectedly well versed in the ways of the Orlesian court and etiquette. Probably too strong of a mage to be interested in writing letters and making small talk with visiting dignitaries, but if there were even a dozen of similar social grace among the mages, then Josephine had something to work with.

“So much is new to him, and yet more is coming. I am glad things are calm with the rest of the people, at least.” The raven has carried a note from Leliana and something was working, whether it was inspiration or apprehension.

“The conflict helped Corypheus rise to power.” Solas nodded. “We cannot allow ourselves another distraction. The Herald will need every advantage.”

Josephine nodded absentmindedly. Leliana held it for unlikely that the Venatori had been keeping to themselves in Tevinter. They had approached Magister Alexius two years ago, and chances were their agents had been scattered in the south for a long time, perhaps already undercover next to rulers. Corypheus himself had been out of his prison for more than five years according to Varric. The south had noticed nothing.

* * *

_25 Harvestmere, 9:41_

“We have a castle!”

Ray had laughed incredulously, then spurred Equinor towards Skyhold, much to Josephine’s dread at nobody being able to follow quite as fast. The spirit horse wasn’t intimidated by having to plow through snow, quite unlike the rest of the animals, so it would take the party another hour to get to Skyhold’s bridge, suspended on top of a row of crags. Every once in a while Josephine would look in amazement at Solas, then back at the castle. She couldn’t quite place the architecture, nor had she ever heard of such a huge fortress in the middle of the Frostback Mountains.

Skyhold appeared to grow out of a mountain peak. Josephine could imagine that had they seen it from much farther away, they wouldn’t have noticed the castle as it itself extended like the top of a mountain, in layers, and with a single tall tower its pinnacle. The stone bridge passed over a fissure into which from the edge of the precipice a constant stream of foaming water was pouring. The mountain underneath the fortress, some hundred feet of rock, was surrounded on all sides but the entrance by the large lake from which the water fell, and then by yet more and taller peaks. It took Josephine some time to realize that the thick white line stretching from one of them into the lake was not snow but rather a waterfall.

Half an hour into the end of their journey, a blaze of fiery flowers rose into the sky.

“It appears nothing too dangerous is living there now if he has the time for fireworks,” Solas noted and steered his horse to the front of the line.

“Frigging arse could have died,” huffed Sera as she followed.

Without worries making time stretch indefinitely, they soon rode across the bridge to find Ray at the gates, panting and grinning.

“We have a _magical_ castle!”

* * *

_29 Harvestmere, 9:41_

“I have re-established contact with my agents in the Hinterlands and Halamshiral,” Leliana leaned against the wall of what Josephine was shaping out to be her office and reception hall. Most of the stone had held against the time, even against some possible attacks, it seemed. The rest of the place was in shambles. “We have uncovered three roads as well, to Ferelden and to Orlais, and the last one maybe in the direction of Orzammar. May I suggest you take the Herald to Halamshiral before he drives everyone crazy?”

Josephine huffed and buried her face in her hands.

“What is he doing _now_?”

“Nothing beyond the usual, being in three places at once, sorting out bricks…”

“Bricks?” Josephine looked up and blinked at her friend.

“Looking for the enchantments,” Leliana laughed. “Discovered bricks from all over Thedas and from five ages ago instead.”

Josephine didn’t know what to make of that. There was no doubt that the castle was indeed built with enchanted elements. Amidst the snowy mountains on the onset of winter, there was no trace of snow, the weather that of the Hinterlands a month earlier. Some other dwarven technology was in play as well, as water from the lake looped through the main building, but there they had discovered no runes either.

“He also wants to build back the towers, clean up the gardens, sweep through all the corridors, put stained glass everywhere, transport books from Kinloch Hold…” Leliana went on and on.

“Everyone has barely arrived!” Josephine exclaimed with exasperation. “Most are still in the courtyard recovering from the journey.” She shook her head. “We are not going to make it to Halamshiral in time, perhaps we should celebrate Satinalia here first.”

“I suppose that will give a boost in morale,” Leliana shrugged. “And will give us enough time to put together a carriage and some clothes for the two of you.”

Leliana left the hall and Josephine flagged the nearest person to go find the Herald of Andraste and bring him to her. For lessons in etiquette and Orlesian, and to give people a respite.

* * *

_2 Firstfall, 9:41_

Josephine had witnessed the closing of the Breach from afar and had never seen Ray close a rift. Nearly half of the village in which they had arrived at nightfall had been fenced off multiple times, the wooden houses inside reduced to ashes. The villagers had fended off demons for days before the Breach had been calmed and the rifts had followed suit, but by the time many lives had been claimed. The fires that had burned down the place had been partly from the demons, partly from the villagers’ arrows.

Although Josephine had her thin sword with her, it hadn’t been hard to convince her to stay outside. Ray, Ser Blackwall and the two scouts accompanying them had gone closer, the rift had reopened and Josephine watched, for the first time, one of the battles the likes of which had spread the legend of the Herald of Andraste throughout the Fereldan Hinterlands. She had found herself unable to resist cheering with the rest of the villagers when the green light had died down and Ray let the hand with the Anchor fall. The healer they had taken with them, a girl named Aina, was cheering even louder.

The village truly celebrated Satinalia that night, and the Inquisition gained in reputation, the best in lodging the village had to offer, and a heap of presents. They asked for the Herald’s wishes, too, and the one thing he requested was to direct any mages to Skyhold.

“We should do that with our camps in Ferelden, actually,” Ray said between bites as they were having a rich dinner. “And anywhere we might go. Especially for the children that have recently come into their magic. Also, as we have many, put some healers in the camps as well. No better way for mages to gain the goodwill of the locals. Do you think we can do something like that for the Marches? Send them to Ostwick, I mean. Or other places, Fiona has them. Some might wish to join us at Skyhold as well.”

“That fortress is going to get even more magical,” Ser Blackwall laughed.

It had been the brightest and loudest first day of Satinalia Josephine had ever experienced. Coming from an Antivan, that meant a lot. The people at Skyhold hadn’t had much to gift, but fireworks and all sorts of other spells and magical games had been abundant.

“Of course,” Josephine nodded. “Although we should look into getting some knowledgeable engineers to rebuild,” she looked at Ray pointedly. “Some of the structures might take months to restore.”

“Not if we do it with magic,” Ray grinned and drank some of his wine. “But yes, an engineer wouldn’t be amiss. A few of the mages have some knowledge, but it’s all academic.”

“I suppose… bricks can be moved with magic indeed.” She felt a vague curiosity at the idea of witnessing that and some apprehension at the thought of giving yet another impression of Tevinter. “Leliana is looking for a good engineer, and also an arcanist. She said she had someone in mind for the latter.”

“An arcanist?”

“A dwarf,” Josephine nodded. “Not a Tranquil.” 

There were fifteen of the Tranquil at Skyhold, most saved either by Cassandra and Minaeve, or by the mages due to having been close friends. Only two of them were skilled at crafting runes, and Josephine was determined to make the lyrium trade with Orzammar more than just a one time deal. Especially if they were going to station mages around the place and rebuild with magic. Leliana had also had the right feeling. If Ray was planning on those things, he would accept the position.

“I have wondered…” she decided to follow more of Leliana’s advice and prod a bit, “why you weren’t willing to follow the path your mentor had cleared for you at Ostwick. You could have changed things as first enchanter.”

“Not like I would have wanted to. And I would have been the one to have to sign all the Harrowings… and plenty of the orders for Tranquility.”

“Are the Harrowings…?” Josephine had come to understand that there would be none of those in Haven or in Skyhold, but the ritual itself appeared to be a well-guarded secret.

“The Harrowing is the reason apprentices were the most numerous group in the Circle.” He cut her off, tone shifting colder, then sighed. “Some months before we rebelled the Knight-Commander of Ostwick demanded that Harrowings were sped up for those of age. It was even worse than usual, we lost twelve out of fifteen. The first enchanter could only reject a few of the requests. So no, I don’t want to be in that position, ever. I just wanted to get away.”

Aina had shifted further back into her chair and wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Josephine hadn’t noticed one of those Harrowing rings on her hand. She turned back to Ray.

“What about now? If you could get away from all this, would you?”

“I don’t think Corypheus would let me,” he laughed. “It’s tempting to turn Skyhold into a voluntary exile for the mages… but Corypheus wouldn’t be the only one to come after us in the end.”

* * *

_4 Firstfall, 9:41_

They arrived in Halamshiral at dusk, completely unrecognized by anyone. Their clothes made them look more like somewhat prosperous merchants, except for Ser Blackwall who looked like a soldier, carrying his sword openly and the two staves wrapped in fabric. The festivities were largely over, at least in the streets, and the guest house they were staying in wasn’t overcrowded. They left their luggage in the rooms that had been arranged for, and the carriage and horses at the stables, and made for the common room to have dinner.

Unsurprisingly, the topic of much of the conversation around them was the Inquisition. The closed Breach was an obvious sight, and Leliana’s agents had been spreading word, though much of the talk was still about the contentious alliance with the mages. The rumors about the templar army attacking had put more of a favorable spin on it than Josephine had last heard, albeit simply by painting the other side in extremely bad light. _Gone almost to a man. Corrupted or some such._

“Did you hear? The elder Montilyet daughter has thrown her lot in with this… _Inquisition_.” A man at the bar was speaking loudly in the middle of three more friends, and Josephine listened in more closely.

“Religious fanatics. Sad. I foresee the end of a promising diplomatic career.” 

“You jester. Ambassador Montilyet is just a step down from Andraste Herself, one might say.”

“I’ve heard the same rumors you have. If they’re true, it wouldn’t surprise me.” One of them snickered into his tankard. “That mark… You don’t think it’s contagious, do you?”

“Be assured, if she catches anything from the Herald, it will not be the mark of the divine.”

Josephine forced herself to exhale softly the breath she had been holding. Ser Blackwall’s face had gone positively red with anger, but Ray was pale and mouthed a “sorry”, then gritted his teeth as the whole group at the bar burst out in laughter. The rumors in Haven hadn’t had anything on the ones here.

“Antivans! No one cares.”

“Aina, Ser Blackwall,” Josephine spoke quietly, “could you please give us a few minutes alone?”

“Of course, my lady,” Ser Blackwall stood up and walked to the bar, luckily without drawing his sword, and the mage scampered after him.

Ray was staring determinately into his plate, the scowl gone now from his face that had tinted somewhat red. The seconds kept ticking away with the two alone at the table, neither saying anything.

“There is nothing to apologize for, Ray. None of this is through a fault of yours.”

When that failed to coax him into more than simply shaking his head without looking up, she tried again.

“Is this something Leliana has talked to you about?”

The words finally startled him into looking at her, but his eyes were more sad than they were angry or embarrassed.

“No… but,” he mumbled and looked out of the window next, “I didn’t mean to cause you this. Or the alliance. It can’t be what you wanted to get involved with.”

“I am happy with our alliance,” Josephine said firmly. “We will need to be careful, but we will make it work. I enjoy working with you, too.” Ray turned his head to give her a skeptical look. “The hours in the snow when I thought you were dead are something I don’t want to ever have to relive.”

“You are not upset at,” he glanced at the group at the bar, “the way they talk about you?”

“You know,” Josephine smiled, “I once asked Leliana for advice because I thought I was being insulting when talking to you.” Ray looked at her confused and it made her happy that he didn’t know or remember what she was talking about. “She told me that you had heard worse than anything I could possibly say. It is the same for me — I have heard plenty of insults, whispered or not. Courts often have as much glitter as they have venom. But you can,” she added, “demand satisfaction if you want.”

“Shoot lightning at them?” Ray’s lips curled up. “No… Leliana was right, I have heard worse, and I’d rather not use magic for this. But that lot is lucky _she_ isn’t around to hear them.”

Josephine chuckled, glad that Leliana wasn’t around, indeed.

“It will get better, I promise. We will go shopping tomorrow.”

* * *

_5 Firstfall, 9:41_

Things unfortunately got worse before they got better. Josephine spent the morning meeting with Leliana’s people and various merchants. With the civil war raging plenty of nobles had abandoned their more remote estates, and she wanted to make sure anything she was buying for Skyhold wouldn’t end up getting recognized by a visiting dignitary as looted from their house. She was only accompanied by one scout while everyone else had gone to deal with the rift that had been dormant outside of the walls of the High Quarter, in the elven slums.

When they met again, Ray’s face was like a storm cloud.

“She had thousands slaughtered and torched! Over some slimy noble!”

Heads turned at them in the square and Josephine flinched. With the rift closed people in Halamshiral were going to start recognizing them sooner rather than later. She did the best she could think of, pulled Ray into the nearest expensive patisserie, sat him at a small table in the corner and tried to explain to him what had led to the elven rebellion of Halamshiral and how that had been the opening for Grand Duke Gaspard to launch the civil war.

“I get it,” Ray stabbed the fork into his piece of cake. “Some are allowed to respond to provocation with an army. Not their fault they were provoked, the audacity some have to rebel.” He left the fork sticking and sighed. “Those were their lands once, too. The Dales.”

“Your friend from the Circle, she was Dalish, wasn’t she?” Josephine desperately wanted to steer the conversation away from an empress who had fallen down significantly on the list of people Ray wanted to help. “They don’t think of themselves as the same people as the other elves, I have heard.”

“They are… something like the nobles of the elves? Or at least many consider themselves that. It didn’t matter, she lost that just as surely as I did once she was in the Circle.” He gave her a wan smile. “I met her on her first day in the Circle and we moved together after that, so she was spared some of the treatment. The first enchanter even let me paint Dalish scenery on some walls as long as it wasn’t religious.”

“Elves in the Circle, were they treated differently?” Quite a few of the mages in Skyhold were elves, although not as many as Josephine had expected at first. Leliana had told her that fewer elven children made it past childhood in general.

“Differently from those in the cities? Quite. Differently from humans? Mostly as apprentices, although they still have it harder later on. Differently than I was treated? Certainly.” He finally tasted the cake. “This is quite good. The elves in the Circle… they are mages first. I suppose as far as equality goes, the Circle was as good of an equalizer as elves could get.”

“Then we make sure they are treated as equals by the Inquisition.”

There was nothing more to offer and the two finished eating their cake in silence.

* * *

Shopping turned out to be, despite the events from earlier in the day, a pleasant experience. Ray and Aina were positively lost in the luxurious shops they visited, but neither actually asked for anything they had spent time looking at.

“There must be something you need,” Josephine insisted.

“I guess I could use a blank journal or two. Mine is almost full and the snow damaged it somewhat, too.”

He surprised her by coming to her with four of them in the stationary shop.

“Two are for Dorian… I thought… I mean, I always got something to bring back when I went home. I don’t know what to get for Sera, maybe some of that cake, before we leave for Skyhold. And you should get something for Leliana.”

“Why not you?” Josephine smiled as she handed the journals to the shop owner and asked him to cover the sides with wax to protect from water.

“Well, you know her better. And you can get away with picking the wrong present.”

“She likes chocolates. The more exotic, the better. We will pick some together with Sera’s cakes.” Josephine paid and left the shop owner with a long list of numerous other supplies they would need.

The visit to the tailor was the one Josephine had been fearing the most. Ray simply didn’t like Orlesian fashion and they didn’t have time to order something entirely from scratch for their first social call. Luckily there was a surprising selection of fairly rich hunting attire, some tending more northern than most one saw around. Ray was also not as averse to measuring swatches as Josephine had guessed, and willingly followed the tailor to the backroom. Aina finally asked for a pair of white leather gloves, which Josephine bought on the spot. They weren’t going to be taking her along to the nobles’ parties, but Josephine still helped her pick some better clothes.

“I never thought much about it, but we could try looking for some robes, if you’d rather wear those. It’s just that the Herald never requested any.”

“Oh no, I don’t mind. I think I like these better, too. Rion said the Herald never wore any at the Circle either, he always had new clothes when he’d return from his parents’ estate.”

“Were they friends? Perhaps we should pick a present for him as well?”

“I-I… not close friends, I don’t know,” Aina blushed and stuttered. “People don’t have many friends at the Circle usually, the Herald had his…”

The tailor returned Ray safe and sound, and before Josephine left to have some clothes adjusted for her she smiled encouragingly at Aina.

“Maybe you pick something for him then.”

* * *

_7 Firstfall, 9:41_

By the time their rearranged visit to Duke Cyril de Montfort was due, Josephine had shaken off most of her worries in regards to Ray at nobles’ parties. They had been at one or another almost two whole days and things had never turned ugly. Plenty had been fairly dismissive at first, sometimes even the hosts rather than the guests, but the story of the Breach, of Corypheus and of the dragon that nobody could confirm wasn’t an Archdemon eventually won out, if even only for its novelty.

Ray largely disliked them, but that didn’t show up strong enough to differentiate from most disliking each other either way. On a few occasions he even found a person or two he seemed to be enjoying talking to, like Countless Lutetia, patron of Orlais’ greatest naturalists. She, along with others, promised to pay a visit to Skyhold in the following weeks. In the meantime plenty pledged cooperation with the Inquisition, not last of financial nature. Together with the money Leliana’s people had brought from the capital they would have enough to get the castle at least somewhat furnished. Merchants were approaching Josephine with offers now rather than her having to seek them out.

They had a new carriage and more clothes, including some in their preferred styles now. The old carriage wasn’t going to be returning to Skyhold empty either, and they had barely managed to fit in it all the personal presents they had received.

Duke de Montfort, or Lord Cyril as he insisted they called him, sealed the deal of the Herald’s general acceptance in a rather peculiar way. One that almost had Josephine ready to ask whether she should leave them alone. Had he been a less gallant man, he would have been all over Ray, literally. Instead he was pouring compliments about everything, with a tendency towards the Herald’s personal looks and interests rather than the cause of the Inquisition.

For nearly half an hour Ray played it blithely oblivious, answering questions about magic, mages, Tevinter involvement and whatever else the duke had used to hang the rest of his comments on. Josephine was starting to wonder if he wasn’t perhaps oblivious indeed, but when Lord Cyril offered them to stay for dinner and then for the night, Ray threw her a definite “help me” look and she intervened to politely decline. When they took their leave, the river of praises was still flowing strong.

Back in the carriage Ray thudded his head against the upholstery and sighed.

“I am sorry,” Josephine said with a sympathetic smile. “That wasn’t a situation I had prepared you for.”

“Why couldn’t he just _ask_?” Ray shook his head in bewilderment. “All those words!”

“I will teach you how to get yourself out of these, or well, in, if you so desire,” at which Ray vehemently scoffed. “Indeed, from my attendance to balls in the Marches I have been witness to a more direct approach. Although Lord Cyril was also atypically roundabout tonight. Orlesians can be extremely blunt in their suggestions, even if they will usually employ more words. I expect you will be getting some letters to see for yourself.”

“Just burn them when you see them! Blasted Orlesians!”

It was good that they were leaving early in the morning, tonight might have been the tipping point. Or the wine was finally talking, even though Ray had drunk it extremely slowly and guarded his glass from being refilled with as much diligence as Lord Cyril had put into his courtship.

“Do mages actually get involved with the nobles here? I mean, Vivienne did.”

“Hers are more unusual circumstances, but many do, yes. Empress Celene has a taste for the occult. That interest has spilled over into the court and some mages find themselves a patron. The level of involvement will vary.”

“I am trying to imagine our teyrn setting trends like that,” Ray said with a smile. “Mages were still taken to entertain nobles from time to time. Not at home once I had my magic. Though I tried to entertain a girl once, when I was fifteen.”

“If you do that here, please don’t juggle fire and ice,” Josephine chuckled. “Juggling is regarded very lowly.”

“I drew a scenery of Val Royeaux with ice on a window. She was going there to study, like you did. I hadn’t been to Val Royeaux yet, and frankly I hadn’t looked much into it. I made up some pompous-sounding things to put in the drawing. Royal academy of bath-housery. Fashion judgement waiting room.”

Josephine laughed at that imaginary Val Royeaux. It wasn’t _too_ pompous.

“Was she impressed?” She thought she herself might have been, especially at that age. Her father would have probably whisked such a suitor away from her, only to talk art with him instead.

“Initially. Not after a templar used smite on me and had me dropping to the floor and emptying my stomach on the marble.”

Josephine froze, stunned at the unexpected turn in the story. Just like weeks ago during those first conversations with Ray, she was struggling to find the right words.

“I am being unfair,” Ray said just when she was about to speak. “She was worried, then scared. And my mother threw that templar out of the house for overreacting.”

It was a good thing Josephine had learned how to move away from a topic in a conversation with Ray.

* * *

_11 Firstfall, 9:41_

Cullen gave her a funny look when she started jumping and cheering with the others. He hadn’t been against the appointment, however. The Herald had proven himself at Haven, and there was really no one better for the position. Cassandra had admitted being terrified handing this power to anyone, but she believed it was the only way, as well as what was meant to be. The decision had been unanimous and Josephine looked up at Leliana, who was smiling, standing in the clearing a step away from Ray.

Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan now. They were going to make it.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no bonding with Solas without a lot of dialogue, apparently. Also, he would have totally been very well paid in _Inception_.

_13 Firstfall, 9:41_

It had taken Solas a few days to start paying more attention to the boy who had warned them about the Elder One’s templars at Haven. Cassandra had told him his name was Cole and for the longest time both her and Solas believed him to be one of the mages. As people had gradually started leaving the courtyard, however, and it had become easier to keep track of those who still remained, Cole could be spotted among the mages just as often as among the others, talking to people. Solas had asked around, but nobody had seemed to know who he was talking about. He had spent two more days watching from afar, using all his willpower to retain as much as he could about Cole, yet even so thoughts would sometimes just slip away from him.

Just when he had started weighting on how to approach Cole, Cole himself decided to approach him instead. Solas had been going through the notes of Trevelyan’s new Trainer. He had learned by now, to a degree, to respect what some mages were able to achieve in such a short time and with the Fade largely locked away. While one-sided and very specialized, the report was informative. What was even more curious was that, from what Solas had observed during a training, the kind of magic appeared to come to Ray particularly easily. He seemed to be drawing upon the raw substance of the Fade, likely using the Anchor as a catalyst. In the past weeks Trevelyan had gradually been regaining control over his magic, at a much faster rate than Solas had regained some of his.

He put the last note at the bottom of the stack and found himself staring at the drawing of the orb that was now in Corypheus’ hands. They had no ideas or a plan for reclaiming it yet. 

“You are quiet.”

Cole was sitting on the scaffolding in the rotunda when he spoke, legs dangling, and then only a second later he had moved to the top of the table instead, cross-legged. Solas willed himself to remain calm and leaned back into his chair, finally giving the boy a closer look. He was all limbs and the ever present wide brim hat, with all color as if drained from him. His face and eyes were pale, and his hair was unkempt and the color of bleached straw.

“Unless I have something to say, yes.” 

“No, inside. I don’t hear your hurt as much. Your song is softer, subtler, not silent but still.” Cole slowly rocked his torso back and forth. “I tried to help, but it wouldn’t let me. I’m sorry.”

“You wish to help?” Solas looked more carefully at Cole. Perhaps this wasn’t the first time Cole was speaking to him. He couldn’t be sure from just a look, however. “Why do you wish to help?”

“It is what I do. Helping. I help the hurt.” The pure simplicity was enough to confirm what Solas had began suspecting.

“Cole, are you a spirit?”

“At first I thought I was a ghost. ‘Just another parasite that’s wormed its way into our world, feeding off all the things you can’t have.’” Cole’s voice changed, sharp and demeaning. “Lord Seeker Lambert said I was a demon. I want it to be spirit, yes.”

“Your choice is important.” Solas cast imperceptibly, looking for a second presence, or just for the memories that remained even after death. There was nobody in Cole’s body apart from Cole, and there had never been. “You are a spirit who crossed the Veil and took human form.”

That shouldn’t be possible in the world as it was, with so little passing through. The rifts affected spirits quite differently, and in either case Cole appeared to have been around for at least a year, as the previous Lord Seeker had died then, in the onset of the rebellion.

“You are in both places, sharper.” Cole hung his head. “I changed, I cannot return to the Fade. I can help here.”

* * *

It was comforting to have such a kind and caring part of the Fade standing close to him as they walked around the courtyard. Cole would say a few words to a person every once in a while, then step back, forgotten again. Solas had wanted to leave, or tried to make himself leave, after some time. With him around it wouldn’t be long before Cole got noticed by the more vigilant inhabitants of the fortress. He couldn’t be sure if even Trevelyan would let Cole stay, mesmerized as he had appeared of Solas’ friendships in the Fade. There was still the subtle understanding that even as Inquisitor Trevelyan couldn’t simply go out and do as he pleased, lest the delicate balance of his acceptance outside of the walls of Skyhold was broken.

Unfortunately the confrontation came even sooner than Solas had expected, in the face of Cassandra, who in such proximity sensed there was something different about Cole right away. Even more unfortunate was her first resort for council, Madame de Fer. The Court Enchanter had been taught fear all her life and was not about to entertain the idea that letting Cole stay was not, in fact, making a deal with a demon, and that the truth was more complex than that.

Trevelyan appeared more by accident than by the virtue of whomever had been sent to find him actually succeeding. Two soldier and two scouts, all on horseback, rode to the bridge. Behind them Trevelyan was leading a horse, on its back seated the healer they had met at Redcliffe, Aina, who had also accompanied him to Halamshiral. She saw them first, as Trevelyan was currently looking at her, and waved with a broad smile on her face, then shouted.

“Goodbye, Cole! Come visit sometime!”

Trevelyan turned his head as well, recognition dawning on his face. Cole waved back, awkwardly, then walked a few steps away and dropped to the ground to rummage through the rubble and straw.

“She remembers you?” Solas asked.

“Yes,” Cole nodded, matter-of-factly. “She saw me first, she wasn’t afraid of spirits.” Aina waved again, then gingerly turned her horse and rode after the others through the gates and onto the bridge. “She wants to help too! She needed to hear that she could help everywhere.”

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra spoke up as soon as Trevelyan had crossed the thirty paces to them, “I wondered if Cole was perhaps a mage, given his unusual abilities.”

“He can cause people to forget him, or even fail entirely to notice him. These are not the abilities of a mage,” Solas said. “It seems that Cole is a spirit.”

“I haven’t forgotten him and he saved a lot of lives at Haven.” Trevelyan looked at Cole with some apprehension. “Is the mage he possessed still alive?”

“He has possessed nothing and no one,” Solas said and watched as Trevelyan’s eyes grew wider. “He has willfully manifested in human form.”

“Is that even possible?” 

“Cole is unique, Inquisitor. More than that, he wishes to help. I suggest you allow him to do so.”

* * *

It was not without a measure of amusement that Solas watched Cole’s introduction to Equinor. The horse’s head moved in some manner of acknowledgment, although it certainly was nowhere close to matching Cole’s enthusiastic greeting. After that Equinor proceeded to nuzzle Trevelyan’s marked hand. Solas had largely given up on debating in favor of the spirit’s freedom. He thought there was a good chance that the spirit wasn’t actually even bound and was staying by its own choice. Some spirits managed to find something that interested them and stick to it. Still Trevelyan was extremely reluctant to even consider removing the sword. After hearing about how Cole’s helping process worked, he had brought him to Equinor to see if the spirit was unhappy. Solas had come along after the others had left.

The Court Enchanter had stormed off after hearing of Cole’s involvement at the White Spire and the inadvertent escalation of the conflict he had caused as the Ghost of the Spire. The loss and subsequent regain of Cole’s purpose was most fascinating and Solas was grateful to the mage who had managed to save such a rare and benevolent spirit.

Cassandra’s exit had been more subdued than that, and judging by the way Cole seemed intent on going after her, it had been more painful as well. She had already heard plenty of Lambert’s final instigation of the rebellion, but getting the unflattering character evaluation from Cole, as well as hearing of the Lord Seeker’s death at the hands of the spirit must have been too much to handle for the time being.

“So can you read its mind? Is it suffering?” Trevelyan urged Cole as he stood there, staring at Equinor.

“There isn’t any pain.” Cole answered, slowly.

“But does it like being in the horse? And being my horse? It came to save me in the snow! Does it like me?”

“You are very shiny. It didn’t like it when the light was underneath.”

Trevelyan continued petting Equinor with the marked hand, his smile not entirely happy.

“So I have the mark to thank for that as well? Glad to be of service, I suppose.” He sighed. “The Trainer doesn’t know more about Equinor either. She said it had been fate that made it, and that it was ‘A. Very. Good. Horse.’” He ruffled Equinor’s mane. “You are a very good horse!”

“And she is a very good Trainer,” Solas said with a smile. “Or you are a very quick study. I use similar techniques, although it took me years to learn them.”

“It’s strong and pure. And loud. You ripple like water when the stone is dropped. You use the Fade itself. You make it charged but not changed, channeled enchantments.” Cole spoke again, looking at Trevelyan, and his voice kept rising enthusiastically until it sounded like pure joy.

Trevelyan’s hand had frozen still on the horse’s head and he was genuinely blushing. It seemed Cole had hit the main nerve for compliments. It occurred to Solas that with all the praising and reverence he had been getting over the last few weeks, Trevelyan hadn’t gotten a lot of compliments, except perhaps Dorian’s mixed bag of jocular ones.

“Um…” the mage said once he had gathered his wits. “I hope you like the way I feel.”

“Yes. It’s different, but familiar. It reminds me of me.”

They both smiled and Solas followed. The raven, Equinor, Cole, Sera… It was a strange group Trevelyan seemed so happy to please.

* * *

It was an hour or two after midnight. Solas observed the frescoes that covered half of the rotunda’s walls, shifting the lights to correct a shade of green, and taking note of how he would need to adjust the pigments he would request.

“Solas?”

Trevelyan’s voice startled him, fully unexpected in this place. Solas had paid little attention to anything apart from perfecting his designs. He focused, taking full control of his surroundings and saw the confusion leave Ray’s face to be replaced by acceptance, as he stepped under the archway and into the rotunda. It had been perhaps for the best that Solas hadn’t rebuild the Skyhold of old and had instead chosen to reflect the current reality.

“You continue to surprise me.” He had known Trevelyan could distinguish a dream from the Fade, of course, but had thought the mage would be occupied with his own dreams for a long time.

“Is this what elven art is like?” Ray stood in front of the first fresco, taking it in until his shoulder slumped and he sighed. “It’s beautiful. Even if it is of the worst moment of my life.”

His hand hovered over the contours of the beam of light that had opened the Breach.

“When Elonna passed her Harrowing I painted the walls of her half of the room with forests, aravels and halla. I had never used color before, it took days. It was the first time in years that I spent so long without studying magic.” He chuckled. “Nicole thought it was cute, spent her free time reading aloud what I was supposed to read while we colored in. When it was finished, Charles smuggled in some wine and we celebrated, and put a wisp into the bottle. Everything in the room turned green, like with the Breach, only a happier green, I suppose. The templars cut that short when they escorted me back to the apprentice quarters.”

He laughed for real this time, a marry, if not a happy laughter.

“The same night they took me to my own Harrowing. I was probably the only one in the Circle who went through that happy and quite a bit tipsy.” He startled for a moment, possibly twenty years of careful control telling him that this openness was strange. “You know, that was not even three months since they had brought Elonna to the Circle. I hated Helenia for throwing her in so soon. But when I passed we could finally talk about what each of us had seen, and her Harrowing had almost been a walk in the park,” he pursed his lips. “Mine was a slaughterhouse. I wasn’t even tempted with anything, or if I was, I didn’t have the patience to listen to it with all the shrill screeching around me.”

He finally pulled away from the depiction of the explosion and started walking around the rest of the frescoes.

“Now I don’t know, with all that you’ve told me, whether she found it easy because she saw the Fade differently and so what she saw there was also completely different. Or if it was rigged for her to pass.” He gave a lopsided smile. “I am pretty sure mine was, even though the first enchanter never confirmed it.”

“You don’t think she would have picked something easier than the battles you had to fight?”

“It was a test of keeping the ground under my feet and using offensive magic,” Ray scoffed. “Both things she knew I could do quite well in the Fade. Everyone else knew much less about it, so nobody was complaining about me being given something easier. Come to think of it, it was rather similar to our first trip to the Breach. Demons attacking blindly, even what looked like Pride foregoing any talks. I wonder if she didn’t draw all those demons into that realm entirely too quickly, making them feel similarly to the ones from the rifts.”

“How are you faring in your explorations of the Fade? We haven’t had much time to talk.” The last two days had been hectic for the newly elevated Inquisitor, with what time diplomatic lessons didn’t take going into learning from the newly arrived representative of the Mages’ Collective.

“About that…” Ray looked at him guiltily, “I’ve stopped doing it. There was always so much death in those dreams, and after Haven I just didn’t want to look at more. I don’t expect it would have been different in Halamshiral.”

“That is history,” Solas smiled sadly. “It has always been full of bloodshed. The deaths thin the Veil and cause spirits to flock to those places. But it is not all they witness. If you go deeper and grow closer, they will show you other pictures.”

“I don’t know if that is working for me,” Ray sighed. “It is only partly the Anchor’s doing. The rest… I have tried to will myself into not seeing demons, but I still do. It is better here though. Skyhold is peaceful, oddly so. It is a lot easier to just walk through, like the Fade here is nobody’s domain.” He shrugged. “I will find a place for myself, eventually.”

Solas stretched his hand. Trevelyan would keep his secret, and it was better to show him part of it instead of leaving him with doubts. He also seemed to have a good feel about the Fade, though whether all of this was him and not the Anchor, Solas didn’t know.

“Let’s go somewhere more interesting then.”

* * *

“Why here?”

“Haven is familiar. It will always be important to you.” Solas nodded towards the hill from which Trevelyan had first emerged to see the village and the two made their way there.

Panicked voices sounded for a moment and died out, leaving them alone in front of the prison cells, now empty. Solas had sat here for days while Ray had slept.

“You were a mystery. You still are. I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade, yet found nothing. Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.”

“Cassandra is like that with everyone,” Ray rolled his eyes.

Solas chuckled. “Yes.”

Haven was empty as they walked through it, talking, the Breach looming in the sky.

“I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee, and then… It seems you hold the key to our salvation. You had sealed it with a gesture… and right then, I felt the whole world change.”

“You didn’t say it that way, I don’t think. You just… said it.” Confusion was slipping back in as memories bubbled up and called forth consciousness.

“Is that how you remember it?” Solas smiled, feeling the unease. “That is what I mean about perception shaping our existence.”

“But that’s only true in the Fade.” Ray looked around, and Solas could only hold a little bit longer before he would pull himself away.

“You have fractured rules of man and nature, and you will shatter more before you are done. I have explored the Fade more than anyone alive, but even I can only visit in dreams.” One last smile. “But you… you might have been able to visit me here while awake.”

The agitated voices emerged again, red blooming on the snow.

“It should not have been so easy for you.” He could still go back to maintaining the image, but this seemed like a good place to stop.

“This isn’t real.” Ray muttered. It seemed he was going to break out one way or the other. “This isn’t real.”

“That’s a matter of debate… probably best discussed after you _wake up_.”

With those last words Solas opened his eyes to the grey walls of the rotunda.

* * *

Quick steps sounded only a minute later, and the door flew open. Ray hadn’t wasted time picking a dressing gown, the blue silk jacket of his sleeping clothes crooked, hair disheveled.

“Sleep well?” Solas smiled at him.

“Your Worship, is there a problem?” Two soldiers emerged from behind him, likely the guards that hadn’t had another choice but to follow.

Ray sent them away and his eyes were less frantic when he turned back to Solas, then looked up into the expanse of the tower going up, all the way to the top, where Leliana spent her days and most of her nights.

“You’re a dreamer.” Ray spoke in a whisper, making it hard to tell how much of this was statement, accusation or a question. It could have been any of the three.

Solas rose from his chair, picked the blanket that hung from the armrest, then threw a silencing barrier around them. He spoke loudly enough to make it clear that it was safe.

“Yes. A rare gift these days.” He handed Ray the blanket, who took it and then simply held it, still stuck at the door. Solas went back to his desk and filled a glass with water, which he then placed on the low table beside the couch. It took another half a minute before Ray moved and then finally took a seat, spreading the blanket over his knees.

“Have you ever killed with it?”

Solas had expected the question, albeit later down the line. The only tales that remained of dreamers were those of the Neromenians, who would later found Tevinter, their dreams simply the tool they used to haunt and kill their enemies. Solas had his reply ready.

“Never anyone of this world.”

“It is unsettling,” Ray finally admitted quietly as he took the water and drank it in a single breath. “It is the first unconscious dream I’ve had in twenty years. I don’t know how most manage to live like that. Do you regularly talk to people in dreams?”

“No. Consider that one more rule you have effortlessly broken in your rise to power. I didn’t enter your dream, however. You went through the trouble of finding me in your sleep. I had no idea that the Anchor would allow you to dream with such focus. It is truly remarkable.”

“But I am not a dreamer!” Ray exclaimed. “I’ve never walked into another’s dream, not since I got the Anchor either. Is it because you are a dreamer? Or is it just this place?”

“Perhaps a combination of the two,” said Solas. The old magic was still around, welcoming him home and into his domain. “Anyone who can dream has a potential they rarely even try to reach.”

“I _have_ tried doing more before,” Ray let out a small huff. “Something like that would have made communication in the Circle a lot easier at the very least. Most I can do is wake myself up from nightmares, or get a staff.”

“As well as keep the ground under your feet even outside of a dream spun by a spirit.” Solas noted. “You also started cracking my scenery towards the end. It needn’t be walking into the dreams of others, and I don’t advise you actively seek it. Spirits rarely react favorably to people consciously walking into others’ dreams. All you need is to master your own.”

He examined the mark again, something that he had done daily before, when he had the opportunity to do so. If anything, Corypheus had buried it even deeper with his attempt to remove it. Solas wasn’t sure whether it was adapting to Ray or the other way around. Such old and foreign magic had never been meant to manifest like this, he couldn’t even reliably predict how volatile it could become. 

“Is it an unpleasant feeling having it?”

“No,” Ray blinked, surprised. “Casting has never felt better. I can tap into it sometimes, but I have to be careful, or, well, things like the bees yesterday happen.” He snorted, then changed his expression to one of petulant remorse.

“Bees?” Something rang a bell, someone had mentioned bees, but beyond that Solas didn’t know of the event. “What is this about bees?”

“Sera said she needed a lot of bees. It was right after I had come back from training and I might have opened up to the Anchor a lot more than usual. There were… a _whole_ lot of bees. Harritt chose that moment to open the door to the undercroft, so we spent another hours tracking down stray bees.”

Solas shook his head, not without mirth.

“You spend too much time with Sera.”

“They were still my bees. Josephine made me stand there while she admonished Sera, all the while making it clear that all of it was directed at me.” He grinned unabashedly. “It was not all for nothing, they are going to make one of the floors under my rooms into a better place for playing around with magic and alchemy. The engineer Josephine contacted will be getting here tomorrow or the day after, we really need the kind of thing for the rest of the mages as well. Something to agree on with Vivienne, if you can imagine.”

“Yes,” Solas laughed briefly. “Although that isn’t the only thing I can imagine her agreeing with. A mage in power doesn’t sit wrong with her, however much she’d rather have that mage be herself. I suspect we wouldn’t have Cole if that were the case.”

“I hope Cole can be good for the mages, but hers might well be the more common reaction,” Ray sighed. “Luckily he seems to have taken residence in the largely empty attic of the tavern, and he mostly still makes everyone forget him. He confirmed our suspicions about spirits not being able to read me, by the way. He can’t do it himself and described it as similar to ‘counting birds against the sun’. At least he’ll talk to me normally instead. Now to get the rest of the spirits to do so.”

* * *

_14 Firstfall, 9:41_

They had talked until almost dawn, finally falling asleep in the rotunda. There hadn’t been any more walking between dreams. Entirely too early a servant came in to wake up Trevelyan, polite but loud and insistent enough to wake up Solas in the process as well. In the two or three hours they had been asleep someone had thrown a heavy duvet over Ray’s sleeping form. That had now turned into the main allure to stay in bed, or rather the sofa. It must have been at Leliana’s orders, who had taken up smiling at Ray more often as of lately. Solas wasn’t entirely sure how much of this was an attempt to repair some of her damaged faith, and how much just a game of tactics. Ray ought to have been one of the last people to look to for matters of faith, but then it seemed that Leliana was, if not outright heretical, then at least wildly unorthodox in her religious convictions.

“Inquisitor!” Another servant flew in, carrying a stack of papers and a pelt mantle to substitute the duvet. “The Lady Ambassador has requested a short council meeting before breakfast. These are the papers for it.”

Ray finally sat up and dropped his feet to the ground to slip on his shoes. The servant hovered around until he could actually drape the mantle around Trevelyan’s shoulders, then ran off again, likely on another errand.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan,” Ray sighed. “In another life I would have been happy enough as an academic or something.”

“But in this one you have chosen a path whose steps you do not dislike because it leads to a destination you enjoy. As have I.”

“Beyond having a place to sleep in order to see more of the Fade?” Ray quirked an eyebrow.

“I enjoyed talking to Cole outside of the Fade yesterday,” Solas nodded. “And talking to you in the Fade.”

Ray laughed as he flipped through the papers. “That’s still a lot of the Fade. But I think I understand the fascination a bit better now.” 

Once Ray had left Solas sat down and started adding the requisitions for the frescoes under the list of books he wanted to go through. He had done this before, left a record of history. He wondered, should spirits have been capable of feeling Ray’s emotions, if those would have ever sounded louder than the ones from the hopeful and faithful around him. So much had gone wrong before, the fragments of what remained reassembled into a mockery of what had been.


	22. Chapter 22

_15 Firstfall, 9:41_

“Never thought I’d witness that, Inquisitor,” Gatsi Sturhald walked around the throne to look and poke at the backside. “Two days and a building that would have taken two months is almost done. You’ll need a few quarries soon though, the stones from that destroyed wall are almost used up.”

“We will look into that,” Ray nodded. “So, how sturdy is this throne?”

A Circle throne. Or, as Vivienne had insisted, a _mage_ throne. Solas had been right, it seemed. Still, Vivienne had also been right in her own way, as there was really no other recognizable symbol of mages. It certainly wasn’t a symbol he wanted around, but the other options weren’t any better. The traditional Inquisition throne featured that Seekers and templars symbol prominently, and the last thing he wanted was to have a templar sword digging into his back. It also came with a handful of blades and a branding iron. Chantry throne was right out. So they had gotten into one of those conversations on Circle history, which was why Ray smirked now, looking at the six dragons flanking the throne. Bull’s people had looted them from Therinfal Redoubt, and they fit perfectly. Dorian had found it funny, at least.

The Inquisition sword he had held being made Inquisitor had also had dragons winding around where the hilt met blade, and for a while that had felt really weird. Then it dawned on him that all of this tied in with Emperor Drakon and the days the dragon had been a symbol not just in the north. These days it was the image of a lion that signified Orlais.

“Well, the stone will be easy enough to reshape, but keeping the symmetry with the metal might be a problem. It’s rather brittle.”

“Oh…” Ray blinked, taking a second or two to acknowledge a cultural difference in taste. “I don’t need it symmetrical, in fact just break half of one side to make it stick out more.”

“Can do that, Inquisitor, easily.” Gatsi looked at the perfectly symmetrical throne somewhat unhappily. “Is it a mage thing?”

“Oh, yes, it very much is.”

Quite frankly he wasn’t eager to judge anyone, and certainly wasn’t expecting for that to happen so soon.

* * *

_16 Firstfall, 9:41_

“I remember being fond of animals. I don’t remember why.” Having finished her introduction, along with instructing him on where she would be performing creature research, Helisma walked off.

Somehow Ray doubted that the fondness of animals the Tranquil had once felt had been the kind that now translated into dissecting what was left of them to find ways to kill them faster. At least Minaeve had finally found some sense of belonging again, after not being abandoned for once, and gone back to studying. He would get used to Helisma quickly enough, and to the rest of the Tranquil, he supposed.

He made his way to the top of the tower, where Leliana had indeed established her headquarters, and stopped on the stairs to let Cullen pass through. The commander nodded and Ray barely responded in kind, turning his head to look through the narrow window instead. The winter sun was only now emerging from behind the mountain tops, making it yet another morning Ray had been up and out before he could observe a sunrise from the balcony of his room. Or a sunset, for that matter.

“The names of those we lost,” Leliana was holding an ornate scroll box. “You must blame me for this.”

There had been a short moment like that, back in the panic in Haven when Ray had decided that the best option would have been for him to stay behind. He had told the mages that the Inquisition would know when the templars started marching, and that had turned out to be a lie. Fiona had long given him the list of those she had lost, thirteen in total. Far fewer than the soldiers or villagers who had died. The few casualties, the dead host of templars, having half of a splendid if a bit decrepit castle, the acceptance - all that had ultimately been enough to consider the whole thing a victory. He wasn’t about to bring it up with Leliana.

“I didn’t know what I was looking for!” He must have taken too long to say something. “The red templars are like nothing I’ve seen, and the Venatori hide their tracks well.” Leliana pushed herself away from her desk and went to the window. “I keep wondering if I could’ve done something different.”

“Do we know where they came from?” 

“Sulcher’s Pass, at least a significant portion of them. It is close to Haven and we examined if it was fit for use before the Conclave. The path was so buried underneath rocks, it would have taken an army days to clean it up, and we did’t have one. We abandoned the pass. I got word from my people last night, the pass has been cleared. There are also reports of missing Chevalier squads in Orlais, and a few have been discovered slaughtered. We suspect that was the work of Samson and his templars. As for the rest…” Leliana lowered her head, “the rest were from Therinfal. They must have gone through the Korcari Wilds. When the first of my agents went missing, I pulled the rest back, awaiting more information. The region has always been dangerous, I was afraid to lose my agents, and instead we lost Haven. If they’d stayed in the field, they could’ve bought us more time.”

“They would have died like the rest, if the red templars made it through half a continent without being reported anywhere. Bull’s people didn’t find their tracks either. Luckily so, perhaps. I bought us the time, and I don’t blame you for looking out for your people. That’s a good thing. We know exactly who is to blame.” However Corypheus had survived the Conclave, at least he was alive to take revenge on. Ray wondered whether with the Breach closed spirits would still crowd underneath to show him that last vision again. Leliana’s sigh interrupted his thoughts. “You are more worried than usual.”

“In the Redcliffe future, was there any mention of Grey Wardens? Anything at all?”

“No,” Ray shook his head. “They were… researching the blight sickness for Felix’s sake, but there was no word about an actual Blight either. I suppose that is good news, if it would mean Corypheus’ dragon is not an Archdemon.”

“Everything points to it not being one, but if Corypheus can control the Wardens… Blackwall knows absolutely nothing!” Leliana closed her eyes and exhaled. “Speaking of Felix, the magister has his reply.” Leliana handed him a letter, its seal broken. “The _former_ magister,” she followed the letter with two more parchments, this time unrolled.

One was from the Magisterium to Denerim, washing their hands of Alexius, disowning him and stripping him of his rank and title. The other was from Queen Anora, explicitly giving authority over his judgment to the Inquisition. The queen’s single sentence about Alexius was followed by two passive-aggressive paragraphs about Ferelden and the loss of Haven in particular.

“Marquis DuRellion has also expressed interest in clearing out Haven and building a monument where it stood. Even the chantry building collapsed. We will send some people of our own as well, we have things to recover.” Leliana was watching him carefully. “If you want to spare his life, better do it quickly. The hall is almost empty at this hour.”

* * *

“Inquisitor, I’m pleased to report we have managed to procure some more befitting fabrics and a tailor trained in Val Royeaux. We must keep up appearances, after all. That will require for you to be present for some measurements at your earliest convenience however.”

He was to be “Inquisitor” when spoken to formally, even by Josephine, yet another of the requirements for keeping appearances for his very new office. In private they had still gotten a good laugh at some of the more salacious letters from impressed Orlesian nobility.

“I suppose we must, and I’ll do it as soon as possible, but I will need you for something first.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

Ray handed her the letter from Tevinter, although he recognized by the perfunctory glance she threw at it that she’d already read it. Of course she had.

“I will have the hall prepared for judgment and Magister Alexius brought in, if you wish.” She was very likely in on the whole thing, so he trusted her to skimp on the invitations.

It was too late to warn Alexius about the recent development, but maybe the magister would play his role better if he believed he was losing more than he actually was.

The judging was a strange affair, considering that neither Alexius’ crimes nor any details about his subsequent help were brought to light. A few of the mages present snickered at the apostasy charge, but that was as good of an opportunity as any to state that the Inquisition wasn’t following this particular Chantry rule. Without time magic most of the crimes remained “attempted”. The Tranquil weren’t mentioned. Alexius ended up sentenced to research magic for the inquisition, without batting an eye at the Magisterium’s actions. Obviously he hadn’t hoped for Tevinter to be prepared to get saddled with a mess.

Really, Ray walked into the mess that followed completely by accident.

* * *

He was on his way to the quartermaster to see about any quarries they might have access to, but rather unfortunately walked into the wrong building. The inside was way too hot and as a blond woman pulled out a sword from a sizzling and steaming barrel of water, he realized he had found himself in the smithy instead. Had he walked out, he would have spared himself what was to come next, but without any particular feeling of foreboding quarrel, he crossed the smithy instead.

“Ah. Here comes the hero of our age.” Cassandra was sitting on the floor, propped on a few sacks, swinging a gourd. “Mighty tamer of the dreaded mage rebellion.”

Well, that particular title was entirely Orlais’ and the Chantry’s doing.

“Once lowly prisoner, now the fabled Herald of Andraste!” She spread her arms and tried to stand up. “A toast to you, my lord.”

Ray went in his head over what Cassandra could be angry about. It was a lengthy list and he might have also missed a thing or two. His miraculous survival had taken off some of the edge, but that well had apparently run dry now, and they were back to one step forward two back. Still, he had never seen her drunk before, or even drinking.

“You’re drunk? That’s a new one.”

“Yes, we’re all changing, aren’t we? Everything is changing.”

“And that makes you… unhappy?”

This time Cassandra made it up on her legs, and Ray noticed only belatedly and with barely any relief that she didn’t have her sword. He still stepped back when she moved a step closer.

“You! Coddling the mages, encouraging them as if they didn’t almost cost us everything.”

They hadn’t really had a normal conversation on ideology in quite a while, mostly because neither believed the other qualified, but also because it was just more of how the Conclave had been. Still, with the latest revelations about Lord Seeker Lambert, there would have been enough new material to debate. It would probably require that either Cassandra sobered up or Ray got drunk himself, which he had never fully done before.

“I have watched you, even exalted you as you straddled the world. And _I_ am the one who raised you up!”

“‘Wherever you lead us’, remember?”

“I do remember.” She tossed the gourd aside and swayed. “Corypheus still lives. My work is not yet done. Leave me be, Inquisitor. Go, do what you must.”

* * *

Ray walked to the door of his quarters in a haze and sat on the stairs. Maybe he ought to go see to Alexius, but that would require for him to ask where they had put him. With that prospect in mind he decided Alexius could fend for himself for a while longer. Suddenly he heard voices coming from his room and wondered whether this was the tailor and their helpers. Resigned to that thought, he made his way up.

What he witnessed wasn’t at all what he had been expecting. Workers had taken apart his four poster bed and were in the process of placing some vases and a Chantry statue where the empty bookshelf had stood.

“What’s going on here?”

One of the workers turned, bowed and reported. “Bringing in new furniture, your Worship. Orders from the Court Enchanter.” Apparently the day could get, and had just gotten, worse. The workers had stopped what they were doing, their hesitant faces obviously in reaction to his.

“The Court Enchanter has no business giving any orders of the kind. Return everything to how it was and leave,” Ray barked.

“At once, your Worship!” everyone scurried into action.

He raced down, crossed the hall and took two stairs at once going up to Vivienne’s quarters. She was in the middle of some furniture rearrangement of her own.

“I need to speak to Madame de Fer in private, please leave us alone,” Ray found the last remains of his calm voice. The workers put down whatever they were carrying, bowed and hurried past him.

“Vivienne.”

“My dear Inquisitor, whatever can I do for you?” She was sitting and fanning herself.

“Why did I find movers changing all my furniture?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, darling. Perhaps your old furniture was full of lice and fleas,” her singsong voice was perfectly measured and Ray willed himself to bring his own under control.

“Is this about Alexius?”

“A Tevinter maleficar appointed arcane researcher! I wonder when we’re going to discover a servant drained of their blood. But it is only the latest of your wise decisions. Two demons as pets, setting malcontents loose among the population with no safeguards to stop them should they turn into abominations! Very wise. Meanwhile I rearranged some furniture. Lives are not thrown into jeopardy by this. Perhaps a little perspective is wanted here?”

“They have safeguards, only you cannot accept anything but templars as such. Feel free to invite one to watch you while you sleep. Alexius’ research won’t be blood magic either.” Cole had surprisingly turned out to be more uncomfortable for Vivienne than pretty much anything else.

“Oh I’m sure he’s already quite proficient at it. You, on the other hand, just had a taste.” 

“No, I didn’t,” Ray sighed tiredly. “What I had a taste of isn’t any different than what the Chantry did with me when I was eight, only this time it saved my life instead of putting me on a leash. Now, what was the point of this little prank?”

“I merely wanted to see what you’d do. You are the current leader of the Inquisition. It’s good to know your limits. And now I do.”

“Right, that was the one thing about mages. Always getting upset about someone dismantling their room. What normal person wouldn’t rejoice. How would you like for me to order some Tevinter drapes hung around here, I think we collected some in Redcliffe.”

Vivienne’s glare turned icy. “Don’t be ridiculous. Any more Tevinter around you and people will come out with the pitchforks. You are reckless and dangerous, but not stupid. Be a dear and run along now, Inquisitor. I have so much to attend to.”

* * *

Dorian was kneeling in an alcove of the library, sorting the contents of a crate of books. He must have found whatever he needed for his hair and moustache, since they were impeccable now. Ray leaned against the wall and lifted a strand of his own hair absentmindedly. He had gotten the ends cut and evened in Halamshiral, but no more than that. He quite liked his hair like that.

“Fancy meeting you here.” They hadn’t seen each other in almost two days, Ray always busy with one thing or another. Dorian placed a book on top of the taller of two stacks. “Came to pick a book? These here are trite propaganda,” he tapped the book, then pointed to the other stack, “and those are vapid prose. All these ‘gifts’ to the Inquisition, and that’s the best they can do…” he shook his head and reached to refill his glass with wine.

“We will get the books from Kinloch Hold soon, and whatever Felix sends to Alexius.” Ray had somewhat forgotten the letter to the magister that was in his own pocket. He would have to ask someone where they had put him up. “Did you get a letter as well?”

“Yes… it’s like I thought.” Dorian turned his gaze back to the deplorable books. “He’s pulling strings like a madman to gather the senate. I’m told you have Alexius researching magic for you? Research is always what made him happiest. Perhaps I’ll even go talk to him, eventually.”

“He is out of the prison cells,” Ray nodded. “Do you want to go find him together?”

“No. I can’t possibly look at him right now, not with Felix…” he emptied the glass of wine and refilled it right away, draining the last of the bottle. “One word of advice: if he suggests altering time as a way to solve all your problems, give it a pass.”

“If only that could have worked,” Ray sighed and avoided looking at Dorian, focusing instead on the bottle of wine. It had a proper label, one that looked old and Nevarran.

“It’s from the wine cellar,” Dorian smirked. “I should really cover it up, one of Leliana’s people is no doubt watching and keeping tally.”

“I didn’t know we had a wine cellar yet,” Ray looked up to the spymaster’s quarters.

“Where did you think the wine at your dinner table came from?”

“The tavern?” He usually entered the tavern from the top floor, just to check up on Cole and Sera. It was always way too noisy below.

“Now I have to mourn all that wine wasted on you,” Dorian sighed in mock-sadness. “Have you even tried the regular wine? We have this suspicion with Vivienne that Skyhold’s steward has found a bargain on vats of vinegar. The Court Enchanter can have hers delivered from Orlais, I have my trove of whatever dearest Josephine gets for you and whoever that frippery dignitary was last night.”

“So… you’ve settled in all right then?” Ray asked hesitantly, seeing as Dorian still had on the same set of clothes as the day he had walked into Haven. Stains had been cleaned up, but what remained of them was still visible in the harsh daylight streaming from the window, and the leather was scratched and torn in places. Even without the tailor that was to take his measurements today, Ray still had half a dozen new sets.

“I have a room overlooking the garden. It is rather nice.”

“Is it furnished yet?” Ray had only gotten a writing desk the day before. “If you need some decorations, I have all these presents from everywhere piled up in mine.”

“Well, I got a chair,” Dorian pointed at it, reddish and richly upholstered, next to the window. “Of course, it cannot compare to _your_ chair.”

“I bet it’s a lot more comfortable than mine,” Ray grinned. The throne had come out looking really good with the dragons and half of one side missing, but it was hardly a pleasant surface to sit on.

“I say! It’s from what the Chargers brought back from Therinfal. Can you imagine some templar sitting in it, equally grim and self-satisfied?”

“Pulling one off to the Chant of Light,” Ray quipped. “Equally grim and self-satisfied.”

“What?” Dorian barked a breathless laugh, then nudged the trite propaganda pile. “Well, if that’s what they have on books…”

“Say, how do you feel about getting coddled a bit?”

“Peel some grapes for me? Why aren’t _you_ getting coddled? Here and there you run, checking in on your followers. Why don’t they come to you, feed you grapes, rub your shoulders?”

“Come,” Ray straightened, “I’ll show you something.”

“Oh, all right,” Dorian exhaled dramatically and stood up. “I hope all these invaluable books won’t get filed under the wrong section while I’m away…”

“The horror!”

“You laugh, but in some places there are punishments for that.”

* * *

Ray tried to recall the exact path he had taken and for a while the two wandered across winding corridors. People had gotten started on cleaning some of the empty rooms along the way, some already filled with sacks and crates. The Tradesmen merchants guild had been quicker than any nobles to offer the Inquisition their services.

“All right, you have convinced me that Skyhold is bigger than I thought,” Dorian stopped in the middle of the hall they had just reached, “but that over there,” he pointed at a wooden door, “is the wine cellar. And you can get to it in two minutes flat from the kitchens.”

“Oh…” Ray hadn’t finished that walk properly. “It’s not what I meant to show you though, come.”

A minute and two turns into barely noticeable corridors, they stood in front of the door. It had opened easily enough before, now it wouldn’t budge. It finally gave in and snapped open when Dorian joined him, and in the moment it did and they moved with it, they were greeted with a cloud of dust descending on them and a thick cobweb sticking to their faces.

As Dorian cursed and flailed around to sweep away as much as possible, Ray called on a wisp and only barely pulled at the Veil. Within seconds the space around them had been cleared, a dense ball of spider webs lying on the ground.

“Phew,” Dorian went down to inspect it. “This is convenient, just don’t spread word of it. You’ll have to lead the faithful _and_ clean up rooms.” He rose again and looked around. “What in the Maker’s name is this place?”

“It looks to me like a scholar’s room,” Ray said drily. The writing desk was still completely covered in cobwebs, as were the walls, or rather what was along the walls - shelves reaching the ceiling, filled with books. He hadn’t expected all the dirt.

“Nobody has been here in ages! Just how did you know of it?”

“I saw it in a dream,” Ray smiled. “Only it was pristine there. Then again the books weren’t real, so I thought I’d check it out awake.” He started clearing cobwebs, though more superficially now, careful of the books underneath.

“Does anyone ever tell you how strange you are?” Dorian laughed and went to the writing desk to swipe the webs from a large book, spread open.

“Sera, most of the time.”

“Look at this! It’s a Sigil of the gate!” Dorian pointed at a drawing on the page. “Oh, this is amazing!”

“Is this about the gate to the Black City?” Ray neared to look at the diagram.

“It could be… nobody knows. It goes like that: ‘ _the gate, whereby the spheres meet. Man rules now where They ruled once; They shall soon rule where man rules now. After summer is winter, after winter summer. They wait patient and potent, for here shall They reign again._ ’”

“Well that’s not ominous at all.” Ray lifted the paper to turn a page, hopeful that it wouldn’t disintegrate under his fingers. There were yet more drawings and notes on the next page, some of the text vaguely Tevene, but entirely incomprehensible.

They got busy cleaning up the rest of the room and quietly looking through tomes. Much to their disappointment few appeared to be on magic, with most being historical, and some even fiction - though Dorian didn’t slap those with the “vapid” label. Time flew by quickly without either seemingly worried about it until Dorian noted that while his own absence was of little concern, the rest of Skyhold would be getting worried over their new Inquisitor having gone missing. As it was also getting slightly past midday, Ray went to the kitchens to make himself seen and get food, as well as distract everyone by gracing them with his presence while Dorian procured a bottle of wine from the cellar nearby.

“How is the whole leading-the-Inquisition thing going for you?” They were sitting on the floor, going through the food. Dorian seemed even happier now, with the wine, and Ray had also barely thought of the more unpleasant events from the morning. “You’re running around solving everyone’s problems.”

“You don’t need to worry about me. I can keep up.”

“Certainly. If you were a slack-jawed yokel, you’d already be dead.” The slight harshness in Dorian’s voice turned jocular when he continued, “Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy the drama and I didn’t leave Tevinter for following social convention, but are things actually just fine? I’d hate to find out that the Antivan Crows are swimming in gold from all the contracts on your life.”

“Things are better than I ever expected,” Ray blinked, surprised to realize that this was actually true. Cassandra had been drunk, and Vivienne had been, well, Vivienne. Cullen had blithely stated that his position hadn’t changed, which did mean that he was still in command of whatever army was being gathered. On the other hand the whole thing hadn’t been confrontational in nature, rather the Commander had simply lacked any awareness that anyone could have a problem with him.

It was entirely too reminiscent of the day the Inquisition had been declared. Suddenly everything was getting organized and people were, for the most part, working together. This time it wasn’t about threading carefully in the vicinity of Haven, both Josephine and Leliana were expanding their networks by the day. By now Josephine knew his relatives and their connections better than he did, which admittedly didn’t do the ambassador enough credit, since Ray barely knew anything. It had been a relief to leave matters of alliances in her hands, especially since she had recommended that the rest of the Trevelyan family stayed where they were.

“It’s good,” he concluded again, “still getting used to it. What about you, are people treating you… well, better than a random Tevinter mage?”

“The southern stereotypes are hardly impressive,” Dorian shrugged. “Magisters eat babies and burn everything. I’m here to help stop Corypheus, not educate people.”

“They will still look at you,” Ray noted, “just like with the rest of the mages. But if it gets too much, this,” he gestured at the book shelves around them, “is for you.”

“You _do_ know how to coddle, don’t you?” Dorian looked at the writing desk. “Thank you. It’s tempting to make this my study, but I’m rather fond of the window I’ve managed to occupy for myself in the library. Besides, Josephine might put guards in front of the wine cellar if I’m in such vicinity. I will make good use of it, however.” Dorian raised his glass in a toast, “and do my best to be brilliant under scrutiny.”

* * *

Ray walked up the stairs to his quarters. The workers had assembled back the bed, moved the bookshelf and the desk to where things had been, and carried out Vivienne’s statues and vases. A maid was dusting the furniture. By now frustration with the room had mostly dissipated, and however much there was left of it didn’t have to be taken out on the servants.

“Almost done, your Worship, it won’t be much longer, if you please.”

“Thank you,” he replied softly and tried to smile. He made his way to the balcony. “When you get down, please inform Lady Montilyet that the tailor can come up, I’ll be here.”

“Of course, your Worship.”

Ray leaned on the railings, took out his journal and started sketching Solas’ fresco from memory. Someone, most obviously not Solas, had already had a try at painting some Inquisition heraldry on the wall above his bed. He had no idea what function the small interior balcony there had, only that Baron Plucky had taken to walking the railing and being territorial. Too bad the raven hadn’t been there when the painting had been done, to chase away whoever the artist had been.

“Ray?” Josephine’s voice came from behind.

“Josephine,” He smiled instinctively at her, swung the book shut and invited her to step out in the same gesture. “Is the tailor waiting? I thought we could do the measurements here.”

“She will come up, but I wanted to talk to you first. What happened earlier today…”

“No, I just let it get to me. Everyone has been so nice and non-confrontational lately, I had let my guard down. Cassandra hasn’t been to the meetings, however.”

“Lady Cassandra relinquished commanding power a few days ago,” Josephine admitted. “Up until today I sincerely thought it more in spite of rather than because of you. Now I must admit that I might have misread her motivations. She is, however, fully committed to what must be done, as are we all. What happened today should not have happened, but you are in no danger of her obstructing our efforts.”

“The efforts, right,” Ray tapped on the stone railing, “to stop Corypheus. I will do that or possibly die trying. Of that I can assure you or anyone else asking. However, I was at the Conclave for a reason. If we are victorious against Corypheus and I get to shape the world that is to come even a little bit, I will be shaping the world as I want to see it. I am not going to become a blank slate for everybody’s expectations. If there is a decision I am not allowed to make, then I ask that I be told so in advance. If anybody wishes they’d rather take over making a decision, they should come out and state so. Is there a problem with any of this?”

He felt his voice heading towards some hostility, but Josephine looked strangely relieved. Ray wondered if she had been expecting him to bolt out of his new role. “If you allow me to speak frankly…”

“Please do,” he said at once.

“You are both empowered and bound. However, not by the people in Skyhold. The Inquisition’s sovereignty is derived from the allies who validate it. Keeping everybody happy is not what matters, and that applies especially to your companions. They are not here for you to bow to their ideals. Be assured that should any decision you are about to make actually threatens our main objectives, we will speak up at the war table, well in advance. The common people are happy and have faith in you. You closed the Breach, you have brought back peace to the Hinterlands. Most have no concrete knowledge of Corypheus and their main problem remain the rifts. If nothing is currently keeping you in Skyhold, there are plenty of places where you can go to do what only you can do and gain even more goodwill.”

After the morning ordeal, hearing this made Ray almost deliriously happy.

“Then I will do that. Anywhere in particular? I’m assuming we are not yet venturing into Orlais.”

“We are gaining support in Orlais, but establishing a presence there at this time is a hazard. There are already two large forces at war, and a series of reports about elven sabotages and retaliation. We do, however, have soldiers missing in Ferelden,” Josephine sighed in mild irritation. “Some went to investigate the area south of the Hinterlands and were captured by a group of Avvar. Their leader is demanding to fight _you_ , and we have no news of whether our people are still alive.”

“Well, I should go speak with him then. Can hardly be riskier than talking to Alexius or Corypheus.”

“It’s just that… it’s in the _bogs_.” Josephine scrunched her nose. “Scout Harding went to investigate, even taking a healer with her group. The place is reportedly extremely unpleasant, with signs of recent plague.”

“Doubt it is still around if the Avvar are roaming,” Ray shook his head, “but we’ll be careful. There’s also the dragon close to Redcliffe that Queen Anora mentions causing havoc. If we manage to kill it, it might lessen the ire of even more landmarks disappearing from the Fereldan map.”

“A dragon is a serios prey to hunt, Ray…”

“I don’t have to stand next to her, I’ll get Bull and Blackwall.” Not Cassandra, definitely not right now. “Besides, if we have to fight the one Corypheus has, we might as well try our hand at this one.”

He wondered how to best approach the morning’s trial. It wasn’t like he had a book on Inquisition law, but the whole had felt a bit like a farce. He hadn’t been sure why a trial was needed at all.

“About Alexius’…”

“The former magister was escorted to the upper floor of the west wing, right next to the overgrown wall.” No talk about the trial then. “The Commander insisted on placing a templar outside.”

“Thank you, Josephine,” Ray smiled. “I’d be lost without you.” He laughed when they stepped inside. “The rug was too Chantry, but I didn’t burn it or anything, it’s up with Baron Plucky now.”

* * *

He had a brief stare-down with the templar guarding Alexius’ room. It was Lysette, one of the first templars he had met in Haven. She hadn’t been happy with a mage being the Herald of Andraste then, too much adjustment of faith required, but had stuck around. Whether she was unhappy now because it had “run to his head” or because any idealism she might have held had once again been reduced to guarding a cell, Ray couldn’t quite tell.

The room was more of an apartment, even if it was, like much of the rest of the fortress, barely furnished. It still had plenty of windows, or at least the holes for them with some rusted frames and jagged pieces of glass sticking out, and it didn’t have the constant thudding of the water that seemed the biggest punishment of the prison cells.

“This is from Felix,” Ray handed the letter and the former magister grabbed it, uncaring about the broken seal, then went to the windows. “You can send another one, about well,” he gestured at the room with Alexius not even looking at him, “this. If you can’t go home, perhaps Felix could come.”

It took another few seconds for Alexius to turn to him, his face growing grimmer after the momentous joy that had been there.

“No… not anymore.” He stashed the parchment carefully. “This is a terrible place to research time magic, the Veil is as thick as the snow.”

“I thought so,” Ray nodded. “It wasn’t just the energy from the Breach then, it was the Fade itself.”

“It was both. The rifts had enough of the Fade to circumvent the concept of time, but without the energy… well, you know the answer. Besides, I don’t suppose you’d let me out on a field trip to a nearby rift, if there even is one anywhere close to here.”

“We might be able to bring in more lyrium,” Ray raised his hand and pulled on the Veil slightly, “and arrange for the smallest of rifts.”

Alexius had stepped back, looking in wonderment.

“This is different from what you did before… and a lot more controlled. Just _how_ are you doing it? Are you the only one who can?”

“No. But the mark helps to get it right.” Ray thought back at Solas’ words, and at his Trainer’s notes. “The mage instructing me learned it in a very… strange way, and although she understands it, she can use very little of it. Dorian wanted to learn it,” Ray grinned, “she told him that would be ‘inversion bad’. It seems highly experimental for the time being.”

“If only we’d had something like that a few years ago,” Alexius sighed. “Will the templar outside even stay still for my research?”

“About that… I never specified the nature of the guard you’d have. Perhaps not right from the start, but if you’d like to have an apprentice or two…”

“From that lot?” Alexius scoffed, then shook his head and went to the makeshift table. He wrote a few quick lines and handed the paper to Ray. “How much of this do you understand?”

There were five equation on the paper, the first a fairly advanced but common one, the second something similar to the Trainer’s notes, through which he was still trying to work his way. The rest were much like the writing in Alexius’ diary had been, incomprehensible. He handed back the paper, telling Alexius as much.

“Congratulations, you can read,” Alexius huffed. “And here I had forgotten why common soldiers was about as high as I’d pegged you mages for. Now you have to count on sheer numbers and on you being capable of wielding what you don’t comprehend.”

“Well, excuse me for not being from one of _your_ Circles, Alexius!” The man was just slightly less arrogant than Corypheus himself. “I would love to barricade myself in my room and study, but formal studies are the last thing I have time for right now.” He sighed. “We will have the numbers… and I am sure some of the mages here are more knowledgeable than me. But I will send the Mages’ Collective representative to you in the meantime, to discuss more about the Veil.” That would be an interesting conversation he’d sadly miss. “Then there is Dorian.” That made Alexius smile sadly.

“You have a lot to learn about human nature and betrayal, Inquisitor… that is the title now, isn’t it? A pity you weren’t born in the Imperium, you’d have had both the proper formal studies and that knowledge.” He pulled out Felix’s letter again, unrolled it, and turned to move to the back of the room.

* * *

Bull was easy enough to convince to come along. A mere mention of the Fereldan Frostback had him slamming his tankard and yelling “Shit, yeah!”, demons or no demons. Cole and Blackwall were all for it to save people. Varric declined and added, in a hushed voice, that he was waiting for someone and had to stay here.

Sera, on the other hand, would be a coin toss.

Ray would have thought she wasn’t in her room if it weren’t for a barefoot leg thrown over the couch. His eyes followed along it, onto the frayed end of Sera’s leggings, and onto a stain spreading almost up to her knee. He made a note to get her some new clothes, but that would better wait until after the bogs. A muffled giggle stopped him just as he was about to leave and check on her later, and he approached quietly to look behind the table.

The rest of the elf was sprawled on the floor, blond hair tousled, mouth slightly open. There wasn’t a blanket in sight, all the fabric she had gotten her hands on gone into curtains, rugs, banners and… pillows? She had more pillows in her room than he did. Never mind that, she had more books than he had in his room. It was decidedly cozy, aside from the whole sleeping on the floor thing. New clothes and a blanket then.

Sera squealed and giggled again, then moaned, and her eyes suddenly flew open, boring into his.

“Wha!” Within a split second the sparkles in her eyes were gone, and her smile was replaced by a grimace. “What are you looking at?”

“Just admiring your sleeping posture. Why aren’t you up on the couch?”

“Uh,” Sera sat up and shook her head. “Must’ve fallen. We can’t all sleep motionless and creepy like you do! Shut up… I know you are gonna say something about the Fade now.”

“You certainly seemed to be enjoying it yourself until a minute ago,” Ray smirked and watched her splutter and grab around for a pillow.

“Shut it! Is nothing like your freaky dreaming!” Instead of throwing the newly acquired cushion at him, she pressed it close to her chest, paling slightly. “Is it? Still a demon?”

“Why was her tongue…” Cole’s words came from behind him, and the abruptly stopped as the pillow flew past Ray’s head and towards the spirit’s, accompanied by an angry “Piss off!”. Cole swiftly stepped to the side of the door frame and held his hat’s brim down. Ray would have laughed, only now the chances of Sera coming with them were probably at their lowest. Cole peeked around once again, then walked to a table in the back.

“As long as you’re not conscious and not a mage, anything in the Fade being more than an _image_ spun by a spirit is extremely unlikely. Even _that_.”

“Oh yeah?” Sera spat out. “You read that in your Circle, did you?”

“Not quite,” Ray chuckled. “It’s one of those actual conversations you have with your mentor. Usually months after you’ve heard all about it anyway.”

Sera’s eyes narrowed and she harrumphed.

“Wait! You are a mage and you stay conscious! That means…” Sera jumped up with the most scandalized expression Ray had ever witnessed on her face. “You do _it_ with demons!”

“Is this a conversation you really want to be having?” Ray crossed his arms, barely suppressing the urge to laugh.

“No! Yes! Solas wouldn’t tell us! Blackwall asked him, and he got all cagey!”

Upon hearing this all restraint was gone and Ray burst into laughter. To not only pick Solas of all people to ask about that, but have Blackwall do it, the man who thought necromancy was about sleeping with corpses. That had been yet another riveting conversation between him and Dorian.

“It’s not really that simple,” he managed between breaths after a while. Especially not now with the mark.

“Means you’re doing it! You… broken… creep!” Sera was stomping her foot, looking as if she was nearly suffocating with indignation, or likely just fear.

“Sera!” Ray dragged a hand down his face. Just why was this on the table as a topic for Sera? “First of all, I am not doing anything with anyone. Second, it is really not that much different from a dream, you’re just more conscious about what’s happening.”

“How about being totally awake and just do it with a _person_?” Sera wasn’t giving up any ground. “Like a few hundred here who’d be up for it instead? So you can tell people that instead of demons?”

“Well, you asked!” Ray found, not without a high dose of irritation, that he had stomped his own foot as well now. 

“Because people say all sorts of crap! And they are bugging me, too.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not telling people anything.”

“That’s why they are talking crap! You had a lovers spat with the Seeker, sneaked out with Dorian, Josie went to your room, all that frigging stuff! And I was in your room too, and you come here, and…” Sera flopped on the couch and pouted.

Ray’s first impulse was to laugh at the notion of a lovers spat with Cassandra, but he had already heard the gossip people spread about Josephine when they didn’t know he was listening. Josephine could ultimately deal with it, and her station was high enough. Dorian was a mage, at least. Sera was just… an elf, and even in the Circle those had been the most likely victims of harassment.

“Why would they gossip about us?” He finally asked, hesitantly. “You talk about _women_ often enough.”

“Like they listen? I mean you are the frigging Herald of Andraste and you can blabber about mages and still get ignored.”

“Sera,” he sat next to her, “are you safe?” He’d had another talk about gossip with Josephine and Leliana, and ultimately it had been decided that the wisest course of action was to ignore that one variety of it. If gossip was the only thing threatening Sera, then there would be little he could do.

“What? Of course I’m safe,” she scoffed. “Oh you mean like the grabby one, I broke his nose yesterday. Too many healers here though, stupid arsehole.” Sera looked at him sideways. “I know what you’re talking about, right. Put an arrow in a noble bum’s once when I got word from his servants.”

“Just stay safe, okay? Use your arrows if you have to, tell Leliana, anything.”

“Scary. Just… bards, right?” Sera shuddered demonstratively. 

“Then just use my name, whatever. Don’t let them badger you.”

“Oh, here! Do you know they will bring me _anything_ if I say you said? No proof or nothing!”

“That wasn’t a leave to con our people,” Ray frowned, relieved at the same time.

“Fine, but I have an ‘Inquisitor favor’ to ask. Just a little thing, really.”

“I’m listening,” Ray folded his arms.

“A little march-around for some of your people. It’s nothing for you, right?” When Ray raised an eyebrow, she continued, “It’s a Red Jenny thing. I got a tip that some noble stiffs are arguing over Verchiel. Land squabble. Just walk through. Easy, right?”

“I’ll have people take a look. In the meantime, how about I take you away on a mission for a bit?”

“Where?” Sera asked right away. “I want to go to a city!”

“The Fallow Mire is as far from a city as it gets,” Sera grimaced, “but we’ll pass through Redcliffe,” the tiny bit of hesitation on the elf’s face wasn’t enough to overwhelm the disgust in her eyes, “and then fight the dragon we found before.”

“ _I_ found!” Sera jumped up, convinced as easily as The Iron Bull. “Woah! Must mix stuff against her fire, right?”

“That would be appreciated. Bull mentioned not wanting his nipples cauterized.” Ray smiled at frantic preparations Sera had already commenced. “Also go see Harritt. You’ll need some new clothes when we get back, we’re going to the _bogs_ after all.”

* * *

Dorian might have been a lot more reluctant to join them on a journey through the swamps, but as things happened Ray thought he might be doing it out of pity. Of course Dorian had cited agreeing to go “for the company”, although he had explicitly excluded Blackwall from said company.

Ray had stopped a few steps away from the stairs, looking again at Solas’ fresco of the explosion. After some days of work and waiting for paint and plaster most of it was finished.

“I wonder what the eyes are for,” Dorian spoke next to him, referring to the eyes that surrounded the silhouette of the Black City in the middle of the Breach.

“Oh… I don’t know, but I was supposedly sleep-talking about ‘too many eyes’.” He wondered for how long that painting would be the first thing to look at every time he entered the tower. “Are you going to research time magic on your own?”

“Is this something to do with Alexius? Ray, the Breach is closed, you made it out and you said it yourself that things were looking up. Trying to go back to save more would be an enormous risk, even if it were possible.”

“The ones I most wanted to save died when the Breach appeared. It was hopeless from the start.” Ray tore his eyes away from the fresco and walked into the alcove Dorian had claimed for himself. The mild weather in Skyhold was doing nothing for the early winter evenings and he could only see his reflection in the glass, then Dorian’s as he approached as well.

“I am sorry. I never thought much past the miracle of you surviving,” he leaned against the window’s frame. “They were your friends from Ostwick?”

“Keeping my friends was the biggest privilege I had in the Circle. We were always together. We shared everything, studied together, rebelled together. Now I am alive and they are not.” He blinked away tears. It was this stupid morning and Solas’ fresco that was going to be there every time of the day now. “I’m not going to attempt anything stupid. What we have here now is perhaps the last opportunity mages have, and I’m not going to risk the position I’m in to change the past. Though looking at you I do sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if my mother had sent me to Tevinter instead of the Ostwick Circle.” At Dorian’s questioning look he continued, “She has relatives there, and during one family visit, after a bit of a clash with an overzealous templar, she let on that one of the possible solutions… to my magic, that is, would have been sending me to Tevinter. She decided I was more useful in the Circle.”

Dorian laughed. “I keep forgetting to mention it, but did you know we’re actually related? Somewhere in the dank nethers of my family tree, there was also a Trevelyan. Perhaps he was even the one who ventured to Ostwick to establish the branch?”

“And you knew that on top of your head?”

“Not the top. Maybe the lower middle or thereabouts. Bloodlines are serious business in Tevinter. You’re taught lessons and tested… by strict nannies. I had to go through all the old mnemonics. You go back far enough, ninety percent of Thedas has Tevinter blood.”

“We still have a parrot stanant on our crest from those times, you don’t find them much further south,” Ray nodded. “Though it has been a long time, and there has been more Tevinter in our blood since.” The parchment with his family tree still lay in a box underneath the snow in Haven. “Still, perhaps those relatives were House Pavus.”

“Amazing, isn’t it. But I believe it must have been us, because our parents are definitely related. You could have lived a life with your gift admired and encouraged. Instead they put you in a prison to grow their influence,” Dorian picked up a half-full glass of wine from the shelf behind him and raised it at Trevelyan. “To parents!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's citation about the Sigil of the gate is not actually DA lore, it's Lovecraftian (and also from the Necronomicon, which is a good thing for Dorian to like the sound of). However, the sigil is indeed drawn on the page in that book in the game :) I thought the gate and spheres were quite fitting for the DA universe, but not actually intending on more than this passing reference.


	23. Chapter 23

_17 Firstfall, 9:41_

It was a bit difficult to reconcile the image of the Inquisitor with Trevelyan as he was being now, pouting as he collected the raven’s enchanted toys. The bird hadn’t wanted to perform for him yet, and neither had he accepted any of the food offerings. Baron Plucky had spent some of the time perched on the rusty sword that went through the Bog Unicorn’s skull, and once they had stopped to have lunch, Trevelyan had scurried into testing out the boundaries of this newfound trust. The disappointment wasn’t as much over the raven being disinterested in what Trevelyan had to offer, however. He and the bird had spent some time staring at each other, after which the Baron had promptly flown a few feet to where Dorian was standing, stolen the skewer with meat out from his fingers and flown to the far end of the small valley.

“It’s shiny.” Cole supplied, presumably about Dorian’s outfit, as he threw a dry twig into the fire. “Ray is shiny too, but not where everyone can see.”

Cole still unnerved Bull, even sitting there folded in on himself and barely taking up any space. He wasn’t the kind of _real_ demon, not like the big ones with fangs and crap, and Bull could see some of the sense in Trevelyan’s words about demons not necessarily understanding everything they could mind-read, but Cole could still read too much for Bull’s comfort.

“You like him for being shiny, then? Like the demon horse does?”

“The mark makes him more,” Cole tilted his head first to the left, then to the right, “but past that, the weight of all is on him. All the hopes he carries, fears he fights. He is theirs. It must be very hard.” Then he added with enthusiasm and uncertainty, “I hope I help.”

Bull didn’t think Trevelyan minded the burden, at least for the time being. He had taken to power well, frankly better than Bull had been expecting him to. Most of the defensiveness had gone, gradually, with every step of firm footing. He ran around Skyhold all day long, basking in the authority and in the trust placed in him. The Chantry was still there, as were the handful of templars, but Trevelyan was now beyond their reach.

“So Cole, you’re polite, you’re good in a fight, and your heart’s in the right place.” 

“It is? Good.” Bull laughed at the relief in Cole’s voice, and at the same time Dorian’s laugh reached him from a few feet away.

“Of course you have. That only takes eyes.”

“Luckily, I have those.”

Bull did an eye-roll in his head. He wasn’t keeping score, but the ratio of Dorian’s flirts Trevelyan could play along with was roughly three to one. If anything ever happened between the two, it would be in spite of Dorian’s comments rather than because of them. The Vint just teased and mocked, flirts always playful enough to be turned into a joke should anyone take them too seriously. Trevelyan did at least half of the time, took them seriously, and the replies ranged from confusion to melancholy, to resigned indignation. This particular instance seemed to be going pretty well, however.

“You do! A rather fetching pair.”

Trevelyan’s lips even curled up slightly, but Bull was already putting all his money on melancholy.

“Grey and blue like the autumn sky o’er Ferelden?” The line was full of wistful memories, and Bull automatically compiled a collection of the best replies to give. Compliment the person who had made that lovely comparison first, to make Trevelyan open up. Express longing for the skies over Tevinter to make him console you instead. Last resort, talk about magic, because that usually did the job.

“More like the skies of every season over this Maker forsaken frozen pit,” Dorian drawled his disdain for the place, and the conversation dropped dead, with Trevelyan pulling out his notebook and a pencil after some delay of bereft staring. At this point actually bringing the Inquisitor some food would be the best course of action, and Bull quickly finished chewing through the meat on his own skewer and grabbed the remaining two before Dorian, who had wandered back to the fire, could get another one for himself. Sera was on her fifth, and they were supposed to have two each. The only reason she hadn’t been giving Cole a hard time was that he had let her have his, and her mouth had been occupied since.

Dorian gave Bull a stinkeye, burying the blade of his staff in the snow. The Qunari measured him head to toes, then grinned.

“That staff’s in pretty good shape, Dorian. You spend a lot of time polishing it?”

Then he was on his way to the boulder Trevelyan was sitting on, ignoring the groan the Tevinter mage gave him. The two were ridiculous in their miscommunication, and Bull frankly hadn’t foreseen Trevelyan being even worse at this with a mage than he was with Josephine. There had been plenty of soft smiles exchanged with Dorian, but invariably the two ended up inching back and forth.

The strongest reaction Bull had witnessed had been the icy stare Trevelyan had given him after he had directed a nicely explicit flirt at Dorian. It had been partly to test out the waters and partly because without Cassandra to flirt with, Dorian had become the next one he fancied. Except that he actually saw himself having a chance at bedding the mage, whereas the Seeker had been a lost cause. Even if she enjoyed the flirting.

The trouble with Trevelyan getting irritated at Bull’s remark was that there was no way of telling whether he was jealous or simply being overprotective. That he was, especially of his own Chosen Ones, who on top of that got spoiled like chiclets in a nest. The Bog Unicorn got petted with the marked hand. Baron Plucky received an almost ceremonial show of cajoling and bribery. There was some wariness in the way Trevelyan treated Cole, probably for the best, but the boy had been declared _”lovable”_ and received the hitherto unheard of offer to ride the Bog Unicorn if he couldn’t ride a regular horse. The Inquisitor smiled at Josephine and duly studied whatever she had him study, and Dorian had gotten a library of his own and the aforementioned soft smiles and clumsy flirts. Even his dealings with Sera usually started on a gentle note, although by the end it wasn’t uncommon for both to be pouting at how they confounded each other. Solas and Leliana were in their own solitary groups of reverence.

So, Bull wasn’t going to step into Trevelyan’s business with Dorian. His orders hadn’t changed, the Qunari’s job was still to get close to the leaders, to observe and report, and he had picked the right leader to focus on from the start. He still hadn’t gained actual trust. So far all that his actions, and those of the Chargers, had brought him, was a degree of politeness. That was just as good if observing was all that needed to be done, but the endgame was never going to stop there, if Trevelyan were to stand alive and victorious. 

The Breach had been closed and the game had ramped up a fair bit. Par Vollen wasn’t all that worried about Corypheus, at least as far as his quality of a Tevinter magister was concerned. He was just the latest to try to take over, and for the time being it was the South’s problem. Him being darkspawn was a lot more worrying, as was the red lyrium that seemed to be an intrinsic part of his plans. The other worrying part, if not now, then at least in the near future, was no doubt going to be Trevelyan. The South was so desperate in the face of all manner of problems that a mage was now sitting on a throne that was getting heavier by the day, and somehow that was becoming accepted.

“Hey, Boss, brought you some food.” He handed the two skewers and it took a while for Trevelyan to focus on Bull and on what he was taking about. Then he raised a hand for him to wait, scribbled something on the paper and tore off the sheet. There was a drawing of some tree on it. He pulled out the raven’s whistle and blew it, then started rolling up the paper.

“Need a tree delivered?” Bull could see the Baron in the distance behind Trevelyan, furiously burying the rest of the food. Once the whistle sounded, he redoubled his efforts, then dropped on the ground and started flapping and rolling in the snow before he flew over to them.

“Something like that,” Trevelyan replied and wiggled the paper roll at the raven. The bird acknowledged his duty and approached close enough for the paper to be inserted into the tube on his leg, then flew away without bidding goodbye. “For the Skyhold garden.”

“Stitches went there the other day to get some herbs. Shaping up real nice, he said. You doing anything with the plants there?” Trevelyan gave him a blank look. “With magic, for them to grow faster?”

“Oh. Yes.” Trevelyan took the skewers and dragged a chunk of meat between his teeth.

“That’s good, it’s a useful place. Thought Mother Giselle meant for it to be some sort of Chantry garden for the faithful.” Skyhold had gotten something more akin to a room than a hall for the Chantry needs of the faithful instead.

“That’s too bad,” Trevelyan swallowed and smiled not without satisfaction. “The droning of the Chant in Haven is one thing I don’t miss.”

“So… think the Chantry is going to leave you alone?” Bull sat down on a spot mostly cleared from snow, so that Trevelyan wouldn’t need to look up at him. “You still have the whole Herald of Andraste thing going, and they have a pretty tight monopoly on Andraste.”

“They will descend upon my corpse like the vultures they are. But I’m not going to invite them to a premature feast.”

Bull grunted and nodded. Maybe Mother Giselle would come to regret raising Trevelyan, just as maybe Cassandra did… and likely just like Corypheus would come to feel, eventually. 

“You don’t leave with the Chargers, even when Krem isn’t with them," Trevelyan suddenly noted.

Indeed, most of the of the change in attitude towards Bull could be traced back directly to Krem. As a Tevinter he had enough social skill dealing with mages, and the Inquisitor certainly wasn’t going to leave their training with the soldiers to Cullen. That had meant that the Chargers were out of Skyhold less often and on smaller tasks, falling back on a secondary group of lieutenants. Bull himself wasn’t about to take his eyes off Trevelyan or the Inquisition. He thought the Chargers were doing rather well, all things considered, though the dismissive and critical remarks toward the mercenary band had been more frequent even in the tavern. Understandably people were getting upset with paid mercenaries loitering around and spending their money on drinks. He hadn’t expected Trevelyan to be keeping up with gossip, however.

“I will find something for them, Boss, if you don’t have anything particular in mind.” Trevelyan shook his head. “Don’t worry about Krem. I think he’s enjoying it, actually, more time at the tavern. You don’t need to worry about the mages so much though, they will do fine.”

“Didn’t hear you say that when we were getting them out of Redcliffe,” Trevelyan muttered.

“Everything was hanging in the air back then. Now you’re the Inquisitor and you are a mage.”

“Something people will try to ignore as hard as they can,” Trevelyan tossed the empty skewer aside.

“Didn’t mean those people.” Bull shrugged. “Your mages know that you are one. People looking at their Herald and seeing themselves is a powerful thing.”

“I wasn’t really expecting _you_ to come over for inspirational tales of mages, Bull.” Trevelyan had a somewhat dubious smile on his face, which would have probably been one of pure delight if it weren’t Bull he was talking to. Still, the Qunari wasn’t being entirely dishonest. He was plenty apprehensive of what could come out of this affair, but he had seen enough mages in different circumstances to know that they, too, were ultimately what they were made to be. After the chaos they and their keepers had wreaked in the south, the Inquisition was a definite improvement.

“Just giving you the picture as I see it. Those couple of mage kids they brought the other day? They had a proper life experience, being welcomed and all. Especially that little girl whose hair you so skillfully braided.” Trevelyan chuckled and when Bull followed his eyes, they were on Dorian, longingly. The pieces fell into place and Bull almost laughed at himself. Sera and her dismissal of all authority, though Sera was obviously out. Josephine with her wit and manoeuvring the waters of nobility. The waters Trevelyan had been born into. That was too bad actually, Bull thought Trevelyan would be much better off with her, and not just because then he’d get a piece of Dorian for himself. Josephine would be returning the kind of sugary tenderness Trevelyan dispersed in no time at all. But there was Dorian, and whatever Trevelyan might have been, he was a mage. Dorian was what Trevelyan had wanted for himself. It didn’t hurt that the Vint was willing to initiate and sustain the flirting.

“Only two of the seven had been unwanted by their families,” Trevelyan’s dreamy voice cut into Bull’s line of deduction. Indeed, that was too bad, because now Bull realized that aside from having to mitigate the whole Ben-Hassrath thing to get anywhere close to trust, he would need something that the mage lacked and would admire, envy even, or at least find interesting. Praises would only get him so far.

“Ugh… not bad, I suppose.” He racked his brain for something impressive about himself. There was plenty, but not to Trevelyan’s taste. He wasn’t even good with kids, he was no Tamassran. “The squeaky voices get to me more than the fizzled out spells when they practice on those ramparts. You seemed to be having fun though, taught any children at your Circle?”

“I didn’t enjoy teaching…” Trevelyan finished the meat on the second skewer and scooped some snow from the ground to rub on his gloves. “They didn’t let me teach any children though.”

“What, too subversive and heretical?”

“That’s,” the mage huffed a laugh, “really not something I could announce just like that.” He produced a monogrammed handkerchief and Bull imagined the state of it after a trip through the marshes they were headed to. “I never had the initial Circle training as a child, so there was nothing Circle-worthy I could pass on.”

“Too subversive it is then,” Bull said and Trevelyan grinned as he stood up.

Back at the campfire Bull gave Dorian a triumphant smile to get a scowl out of him. 

* * *

_18 Firstfall, 9:41_

The lateens were doing a fine job tacking the ship against the wind that had started blowing from the south. Ferelden wasn’t getting any warmer for months now, something the Tevinter mage sitting opposite of Bull seemed to be mighty aware of, if one were to judge by the miserable look on his face and the pelts tightly wound around him. The swaying of the ship didn’t seem to be doing anything for Dorian’s mood either.

The mage was going to lose the next hand if Bull played his cards right, something he decided againt. Still, unaware of his imminent win, Dorian was looking for a way to leave the game.

“What have you got there, Cole?”

Cole had stalked to where the three, including Blackwall, were sitting on the deck, holding up a pencil drawing. After two hours of running around the caravel and climbing wherever they could, Sera and Trevelyan had settled on the deck to draw under the light of a wisp, and now that he thought about it, Bull remembered noticing Cole there as well. 

“It takes very long to draw, the pencil doesn’t know where to go like my daggers do. Ray drew the ship twice and Sera made an exploding dragon.”

“Is that supposed to be a cabbage?” Dorian squinted at the drawing, some form of interest mixing with the self-righteous dismissal of an art critic of untold renown. He actually got along with Cole, except for the one time Cole had asked too many questions and Dorian had shouted at Trevelyan to have the spirit banished back to the Fade. Right now the mage was just irritable. Trevelyan had turned down the invitation to share the wine Dorian had fetched before they got on board, and Dorian hadn’t joined the art session, so he’d gotten stuck with Bull and Blackwall.

“I think it’s a rose,” Blackwall spoke up. “Going to give it to a lady friend?”

“Yes. It’s for Leliana.”

Bull whistled. The kid was ambitious, though he might have skipped the pencils altogether and just given the spymaster a dagger instead.

“Maybe you could consider growing some roses around your keep? That would make it so much prettier, don’t you think?” Cole mimicked the tone of Leliana’s voice quite well, then went back to his even intonation, “But she didn’t, and then she ran, and now she’s gone.”

“You shouldn’t tell us the spymaster’s secrets, Cole,” said Blackwall. “I don’t want to wake up with a blade in my kidneys if I can help it.”

“While she goes through everyone’s!” Dorian scoffed, then noticed he had just won the hand. “Secrets and undergarments! Mine were mussed. I know it was one of her agents.”

“You’re a Vint,” Bull noted. “We are fighting Vints.”

“That’s… not a terrible point,” Dorian conceded, collecting his winnings, then drew the pelts tighter around himself once again. “But you’re a Ben-Hassrath, an actual Qunari spy!” He glanced at Trevelyan and Bull let out an indulgent smile. Dorian glanced a lot. Trevelyan’s eyes skimmed the surroundings less often, but when he looked, he stared. “How are they not freezing?”

“Sera shakes Ray when he forgets to keep the spell up,” Cole helpfully supplied.

“That opportunistic imp!” Dorian promptly stood up. “It’s a pain keeping up a warming barrier, and nobody told me to practice for the sake of the decrepit south!” And he was off to mooch off from the warming spell himself.

* * *

_19 Firstfall, 9:41_

Prowling through the bogs was a low point. There was the stench and the mud, and then there were the swollen corpses that crawled out of the water at the merest of disturbances. Everybody hated the place. Maybe Cole didn’t, but then again the smell didn’t seem to bother him either. His main problem was that he couldn’t hear the captured soldiers.

“This is like the Fade, but wetter.” Cole had stopped and bent down, looking at the ground, confused. “The mud wants my feet to stay.”

At least he, like the others, had gotten from Harding some boots suitable for the bogs, but there had been none that would fit Bull’s feet. He had tried to think of the dragon that was waiting for them in the Hinterlands.

“Bog. Bog. It even sounds rubbish.” Sera bumped into Trevelyan, entirely on purpose. “This is much better than a city, yeah? Because no, it’s not.”

Sera had been furious when they had arrived at Redcliffe in the dead of night. She had been nodding off on the ship already, and having to choose between a town asleep and herself asleep, she had chosen the latter, and gone to bed. They had left early in the morning, and if it hadn’t been for the rich breakfast, she would have been even angrier at Trevelyan. He had apparently promised they would stop by in Redcliffe - which they had, but for Sera’s purposes that was a technicality. So the Inquisitor had been accused of “nobbery”, and it had taken a promise of delivering to her non-magical beehives that had won her back.

The mage had smirked then, but now he simply groaned. It had taken him about an hour to lose any trace of good mood, which was about an hour longer than it had taken Dorian, who had entered the place with disgust. There was also the matter of the horses. Scout Harding had warned them about the undead, Trevelyan being, at the time, still perfectly fine with the idea of them. No normal horse would share that mindset, however, and that left only the Bog Unicorn, who might have been feeling doubly at home here. But Trevelyan had left it behind, the gesture of solidarity accompanied by a doleful look.

“I hate this place. I just… hate it.” The elf stomped, splashing yet more mud than they were already covered in.

“The Veil, especially, is…” Trevelyan nodded his agreement wearily. Mages and their sensitivities. There had been no flirting going on at all without Dorian keeping that fire going. The conversation between them had descended into laments and the odd discussion about a book or a spell. Bull had thrown a few flirts of his own to try to provoke any reaction at all, but it had been in vain.

“The Veil is arse here. Smells like.”

They skulked ahead and leeches got on Bull’s arms. Cole approved of their ethics. Blackwall endured the longest, at least until Dorian decided that Trevelyan wasn’t a good target for what was to come, and went on to trade insults with the warrior.

The first distraction came in the form of the site of a spell. The mages hummed and huffed around it, then lit it up with the weird magic fire that was wherever the Veil felt like anything in particular. After the battle that followed the air around them cleared up a bit, as did the demons and undead.

“What kind of magic is this, I wonder.” Trevelyan was copying seemingly everything about the place in his book. “Avvar? Doesn’t seem like a good idea to use magic we know nothing about. We should find some of them, it’s not very likely the mages at Skyhold know about it.”

“Isn’t looking for them exactly what we’re doing? Right this minute? More or less?” Blackwall noted.

“Those would be the ones that want to kill us though. Kill me, at least.”

Oddly enough, the first Avvar they met didn’t try to kill or even attack any of them, more interested in staring at a barely calmed rift. He knew who Trevelyan was, however, even more so when he closed the rift. They talked about the magic in this place, and the Avvar might have even been some sort of a mage himself, although he certainly looked nothing like one. Even if it were the furs around him that gave him the bulk, they couldn’t be doing anything for his height, and the Avvar was taller than Bull. That felt odd after such a long time in the south. The weapon he was carrying was just as huge. Bull was actually a little bit worried if the chieftain’s son was built like that and it came to a duel. They hadn’t slept a whole lot and Trevelyan certainly didn’t feel at ease in the bogs.

As it turned out, there wasn’t much to worry about. The Avvar attacked them outside of any proper duel, and as a result were fairly easily dealt with. The soldiers were alive, praising the Herald, as expected. Cole happily glued himself to them, and obviously cared more for easing the pain than for dragons. He couldn’t be left all alone with them, or the other way around, and Dorian readily volunteered. Whether it was the hot bath he envisioned as soon as possible or the unwillingness to fight a fire-breathing dragon with fine, Bull didn’t quite care about at that moment. He didn’t even care that the Avvar they had previously met had been welcomed into the Inquisition and would soon make Bull only the second tallest person there.

* * *

_23 Firstfall, 9:41_

They arrived in Skyhold late at night on the eight day after their departure, Bull still in the highest of spirits. It had been the first great experience with the Inquisition, as far as was concerned. 

After all that crap, they had gone and fought a glorious dragon, and Bull would wade through all the bogs in Thedas all over again for a battle like that. She had lurched gusts of fire at them, swatted with her tail and sucked them in with the wind from her wings. And the roaring, oh what wouldn’t he give to be able to roar like that. Later she had laid slain, chaotic power forced into submission. He was lightheaded from the excitement, although according to Trevelyan and Sera it had been the blood loss. The mage himself had blood splatter over his clothes, they all did – the dragon’s, and to Bull the smell of it was doing wonders for their perceived attractiveness. 

They’d sent a scout to Redcliffe and rummaged through the pile of treasures the beast had been hoarding, picking everything of value. An hour later a boat had taken them into the town, this time not in the middle of the night much to Sera’s delight. Trevelyan, on the other hand, hadn’t been in a mood befitting the occasion of slaying a dragon. The main square had been filled with Chantry sisters and brothers, and Trevelyan had drily noted that he had preferred it when it had been full of mages, and had gone off to look for those after accepting from a scout a thick stack of correspondence.

Once in Skyhold Bull had dragged them all to an already nearly empty tavern, resolute to break out the good stuff. Trevelyan had been yawning on the last few miles, and looked half-asleep by now. Sera was more awake, on account of actually having been asleep on her horse. A few Grey Warden trinkets they had found had been enough to keep Blackwall awake and in a good mood.

A few minutes later Bull had grabbed from his room a half-full bottle and poured a gulp of maraas-lok for everyone. Trevelyan eyed the glass with suspicion, but prompted by a nudge in the shoulder, and a kick under the table from Sera, he finally drank, only to end up choking and heaving. Sera cackled and drank as well, scrunching her face, and Blackwall seemed to enjoy the taste.

Little by little everybody livened up and the conversation started flowing better. They talked about the glory of dragons, and the mage was finally starting to get his enthusiasm back after the fire of the first few drinks. He was drinking from his glass without being prodded, now.

“That thing you just said. You shouted it during the fight too. What does it mean?”

“Oh, taarsidath-an halsaam? Closest translation would be, ‘I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, while thinking about this with great respect.’”

Sera was laughing loudly, and Blackwall was shaking his head. Bull had expected to see Trevelyan at least look uncomfortable, but he looked more surprised than anything. They drank again, and after getting over some choking, the mage asked, “You shouted that while it was breathing fire at us?”

“I know, right?” Bull grunted. “Some of us know how to ask for it.” _Now_ he was blushing. Bull poured another round. This time they drank without waiting for an invitation, and to Bull’s delight everyone started talking over one another about the battle. Sera was yelling that “magey” should draw them a portrait, and the Boss was pulling his hand free of hers insisting that he didn’t like drawing people. Bull poured the last of the maraas-lok, and Trevelyan stood up, swaying perilously, toasted and drank, then gripped the edge of the table to keep himself stable. That hadn’t been a lot of maraas-lok, Bull thought, but apparently the Inquisitor was a lightweight.

“Alright then!” The mage slammed his palms on the wooden surface. Before anyone was able to ask what this was about, the empty bottle and the four glasses were neatly whisked across the air to a table nearby.

“Hey, none of that magic shite, you hear me?” Sera had jumped and was hunching in her chair.

The Boss crowded Bull to the side to get to the middle of the table and spread fingers over the wood.

“I haven’t done this in a while, so stay back,” that didn’t explain anything to Bull, but then he noticed lines scorching the wood and a shape forming. Bull hadn’t ever seen magic applied like this and watched in fascination as an angry fire-breathing dragon emerged. Slowly spreading arms left smoky lines of the dragon’s breath underneath. She looked fierce and glorious! The Boss put a few finishing touches, turned his head to look at Bull, pupils blown wide and grin giddy with drunkenness, and brought his palm over the base of his improvised canvas. When he lifted it, a small horned figure was standing facing the dragon, swinging a cleaver, dust rolling around his feet.

“You are the best, Boss!” He could appreciate any art with dragons, especially the pieces that featured him.

“Right, yeah,” the Inquisitor slumped back in his chair, closed his eyes, lolled his head against the wall and was out like a light.

Sera had scampered to their side of the table and was taking in the picture, gliding a hand over it.

“Hey, that’s my table now!” Bull grumbled.

“We all fought the dragon!” The elf snorted and turned back to look at it, eyes glittering.

“Yes, but it is _me_ in the picture.” Bull lifted the table ready to carry it to his room. “What do we do with the Boss? Hey, Boss!” He shook the mage with his free hand, but only managed to make him slide further down in the chair.

“Can’t drink, this one,” laughed Blackwall. “But he seems to be the good sort of drunk.”

“Right? Bad sort drunk Herald mage Inquisitor would be frigging scary,” Sera scoffed.

“I guess we drag him to his room now,” Blackwall sighed in resignation. “Do you know another entrance, Sera? We shouldn’t parade the Inquisitor like this through the main hall, even at this hour.”

“Pfft, you bet. I know three other entrances. Lots of stairs though.”

“Well, wouldn’t be the first time,” Bull said and handed the table to Blackwall. “You carry this to my room, and careful with it!” He picked up the sleeping Inquisitor in his arms, Sera gagging with laughter as she tossed the leather coat over its sleeping owner. They left the tavern yelling at the drowsy bartender to lock up, down one table. Once outside, Sera curled in an even crazier fit of laughter, pointing at the tavern’s sign. When had they added that, Bull wondered. It depicted Andraste, carrying the Inquisitor out of the Fade, presumably, though the only indication that it was him she was carrying, was the shining hand. People would believe what they wanted to believe. Suddenly Sera was climbing on his back, and pulling herself up by his horns.

“Walk up to it, Bull,” the scrawny elf giggled in a hushed voice, and made herself comfortable on his shoulders. He did so, and when he was close enough, she stretched a hand holding some red stick and quickly drew a pair of horns on Andraste’s head.

“Vandalism and sacrilege in one,” Bull smirked. “The Boss has been a bad influence on you. Now lead the way.” He expected her to jump down, but she just turned his head by the horns and hit her heels against his chest. Great, now he was saddled with both the Inquisitor and with her. Not that it was that straining, she barely weighted anything despite routinely devouring huge amounts of food. Trevelyan wasn’t too scrawny for a mage, but Bull could still walk freely. He followed her lead and after what amounted to a staggering series of stairs indeed, they made it to the Inquisitor’s quarters. 

The room was big, taking almost all of the tower’s top floor, the entrances to two niches darker than the rest. Someone had taken care of the fire, but other than that there was only the moonlight coming through the large glass doors.

Sera jumped down and ran to pull aside the covers of the bed, a huge Marcher four-poster, then took off Trevelyan’s boots with the practiced skill of someone used to looting corpses before they had hit the ground. Then she was holding the red stick again, waiting at the bedside for the mage to be laid down.

“I hope you’re not about to draw on his face, Sera. That won’t go over well tomorrow.” Bull drew the covers back up and had to admit to himself that Trevelyan looked really attractive at this moment, slightly disheveled and completely off guard. He had dragged to bed and tucked in his fair share of drunken Chargers, and it had never been such a sight. Admittedly it had never involved a bed of so much satin and down. It was, all things considered, an innocent sort of attractiveness. Bull had imagined such a scenario with Dorian - a lot more likely given his drinking habits, and that vision had been entirely different. 

“He’s a nob, right? He’ll wash it off and never speak of it.” Sera put a knee on the bed and stretched her hand.

“Let him be, Sera.” 

“Is his own fault, innit?”

Right then Trevelyan stirred and Sera’s hand faltered. The next moment the mage had turned on his stomach, almost to the edge of the bed, dragging the covers with him. The elf’s intentions thwarted by a pillow in the way, Bull picked her up and summarily carried her away and down the stairs.

* * *

_24 Firstfall, 9:41_

It was shortly before noon the next day when Trevelyan found Bull on the stairs leading to the ramparts. The mage looked rested, more so than Bull had seen him in a while. The Qunari himself hadn’t had the greatest of mornings. He’d been accosted to Leliana at dawn, the spymaster adamant about knowing what he’d given to the Inquisitor the night before. When Bull had explained what maraas-lok was, as well as he could, she had vetoed any further interaction between the drink and Trevelyan. Bull had actually worried a bit about what state the mage might have been in, but then they’d brought him to Josephine. Trevelyan had been fine, just quite impossible to wake up properly. That had been the good news. The bad news was that he needed to have proper clothing for the ball at Halamshiral that was taking place shortly after First Day. Proper clothing meant a shirt.

Bull spared a second look at Trevelyan, noting that he looked about as unnerved as he looked rested. The trouble with reading the Inquisitor was that to read people one had to know people, and there were many instances where Bull had at best a very vague idea how the mage felt about things. For anything not concerning mages, Corypheus and the Chantry Trevelyan had two types of faces. One was a near perfect mask of polite interest. Bull had meant to congratulate him on mastering his expression as well as that at one of the more dignitary-laden dinners, until he had figured out some minutes later that Trevelyan didn’t show any emotion because he didn’t care about them and their affairs at all. A certain level of aloofness seemed to match people’s expectations of a Herald of Andraste, and of a mage, so everyone had been happy with it.

The second face was the one Bull didn’t understand. He could read the expression, but not the underlying motivation, let alone intention. For the time being he was going with mages striving for control all the time. This one had lost it last night, in front of a Qunari no less. For a short while Trevelyan really had forgotten who The Iron Bull was.

“If you want that table, you’ll have to fight me for it,” Bull smiled benevolently enough for the mage to pull himself together somewhat.

“So it was alright? I remember doing it, but not what it looked like. If you want it, it’s yours to keep.”

“It’s my favorite work of art! It has me. And a dragon. So what did you want to talk about?” The mage shuffled uncomfortably and Bull allowed himself a few more seconds to enjoy the sight. 

“How did I get to my room last night, the last thing I remember is drawing on that table.”

“I carried you to your bed,” Bull’s smile widened as Trevelyan frowned. The mage didn’t seem to know how to continue this conversation. “You fell asleep right after finishing the picture. Sera knew a servants entrance.” Bull’s shrugged, voice a bit more serious. “Nothing happened, Boss.” He was still only nine parts sure that the mage wasn’t worried about having burned down anything while drunk. When Trevelyan hadn’t regained a hold on his tongue after a couple more seconds, he added, “If you want something to happen, you’ll have to give me that look and stay awake for it.”

Trevelyan didn’t look embarrassed or affronted, instead his face was a mix of bewilderment and mortification.

“I don’t like you and I don’t trust you,” he finally blurted. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Bull laughed and found himself feeling, for the first time, pity towards the Inquisitor. The longer this chaos persisted, the more power Trevelyan was being set up for, and he was already a religious icon. Not that it was a high bar, but he was already the closest the south had seen to a mage king since the times of the Imperium, and the bar was going up fast.

Yet here he was, acting half his age about things Bull had never even considered worth a deeper examination. Trevelyan certainly had people he liked and trusted, but beyond that Bull wasn’t sure the mage even had a clear idea of what he wanted, which meant Bull wouldn’t be able to give it to him either. Between that, the memory of how he had looked asleep in bed and the distinct lack of any remaining traces of dragon blood after yet another bath Trevelyan must have taken, Bull found himself not interested. An odd feeling towards one he objectively knew was desirable.

“We’d slain a dragon, you were drunk, and there was nobody else to share the victory with. You don’t need to like me to want to ride the Bull,” he grinned, “though you’d need the trust. But don’t worry about it. Let’s just keep killing things. We’re really good at that.”

Trevelyan didn’t look entirely convinced, but he had visibly relaxed, and Bull decided to prod at the only spot the mage certainly couldn’t be thinking to have the upper hand of.

“So what’s it like shacking up in the Circle? Read one of those Orlesian collection, the Randy Dowager’s, at Haven.” It had been an interesting read, though Bull didn’t quite think Trevelyan had ever had anything to do with quick trysts, not with all the mages in Skyhold he wasn’t having sex with. Secret and forbidden templar rendezvous were even less likely. “All those mages, must be pretty wild. Is it any different?”

“What?” Whether it was bewilderment at the questions or at Bull asking them, Trevelyan seemed to have forgotten the rest of his worries.

“From doing it with one of us non-mages. Well, not with a Qunari but…”

“I don’t,” Trevelyan blinked, then sighed. “I don’t know. Doesn’t even one of the mages here care for your reputation?”

A virgin he was likely not, Bull decided. The mage clearly had sexual desires, and was blasé enough on the subject. No escapades during his yearly visits home, then. The reports on the Circles had said that mages there weren’t really beholden to the rest of society’s views on sex, which had been the main reason for Bull to keep up some hopes, at least initially. Now he just couldn’t figure out how all of this led to Trevelyan’s behavior.

“Fiddly work, you mages. No offense.”

Trevelyan did his noncommittal shrug, then sighed again.

“Well, then. I snuck out to see to this, now I must go catch up with everything on more than paper.”

So much for the cultural exchange. It was going to be a long day for the Boss, if all the hints Bull had observed during the first half of the day materialized into messy events. At least there was going to be a feast the next day, one with the severed head of a dragon on display.


	24. Chapter 24

_21 Firstfall, 9:41_

The ship taking them back across the lake was even smaller than the one they had come on, and now there were ten soldiers crowding the deck, wrapped in furs and sailcloth. Dorian watched Cole in his element for a while, the boy scurrying from one to another, leaving them slightly dazed and confused, but supposedly at ease. At the very least Cole seemed happy and Dorian had heard a dozen too many barely comprehensible consolations. The soldiers had also heard them, but didn’t precisely have a memory of it. Still, what was there was enough to get them talking to each other, telling of things that bordered on confessions. Dorian didn’t wait for them to turn to him and ask him what his story was. The courtesy of being left ignored due to being a Tevinter mage had been chipping away ever since he had waved his hand and cast an inferno on some bandits who had thought the fine horses pulling a wagon of tired soldiers would be an easy pillage.

The small upper deck was colder, nothing to stop the icy wind, so Dorian tucked the lower half of his face into the raised collar of the coat and got started on sustaining a warming barrier. If Alexius had done it for hours in the snow, then so could he. The ship was even stable this time around, the tailwind making it glide over the water at full speed, cutting through the small waves. One could almost concentrate.

The inside of the collar tickled a bit, lined with mink fur. It was Trevelyan’s coat, one of those he had brought back from Halamshiral. A northern cut for the southern climate, and of course Ray had simply given it to him with all the accompanying garments, because Dorian had complained about the bogs ruining his cloak. There hadn’t been a personalized change of clothes for anyone bar the Inquisitor at the first camp, naturally, and, anyway, according to Ray there hadn’t been a point in taking such a coat to a dragon fight.

Dorian wasn’t used to being looked after like that, not without the notion of quid pro quo lurking somewhere. Maybe he ought to tell Ray about what people were saying about them, because they always seemed to shut up with the Inquisitor in sight, but talked even louder when it was just Dorian sitting there. A snake in the Inquisitor’s bosom, how fitting with the glimmering decorative snakes on his armor.

A sharp “tsk” brought him out of his thoughts at the same time as cold wind hit his face. The barrier fell apart. The disapproving sound had come from one of the boat’s crew, who was standing at no more than an arm’s distance away from Dorian.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to collapse your barrier.” The stranger was probably as close to the epitome of southern rugged handsomeness as one could get. He stood almost a head taller than Dorian, light blond hair tied back into a tail that fluttered and snapped in the wind together with some loose strands, and a pair of the most ridiculously blue eyes Dorian had ever seen. Broad shoulders and thick arms, his waist tapering into a wide reddish sash. “You’re not the Inquisitor, are you?”

“What a story that would have made for,” Dorian muttered and then realized the wind was far too loud for his words to reach anyone. He said, louder this time, “No, only the one other good-looking mage in the Inquisition.”

The man smirked and Dorian smiled himself. This game was so much easier.

“It’s true. I could be more modest, but I’d be lying.”

“You certainly stand out,” the man gave him an obviously appreciative look. “So where are you from, Antiva?” He gestured at the coat, which probably had some Antiva in it.

“Egad! Insulting a fire mage is not the wisest endeavour one could undertake on a wooden boat at sea.”

“Nor is threatening a ship in front of her captain. In the middle of Lake Calenhad.” The man smiled widely, dimples appearing under the few days worth of stubble. His face was not unpleasantly weathered from life on a boat, or perhaps he was still too young for time to have taken its toll. Maybe it was something in the southern air, too. Ray seemed to have gotten more color to his face as well, which made his eyes stand out more. Of course, it could also be the company of Sera and Cole, next to whom nobody looked pale.

“A lake that bears more resemblance to a sea than this boat does to a ship.” Dorian was pleased when the man didn’t even flinch. “Dorian Pavus, of the Tevinter Imperium,” he touched his non-existing hat, “ _Captain_.”

“Edmund Vane at your service, Master Pavus.” The captain actually managed a semi-formal bow and didn’t seem to have suffered any desire to abandon Dorian at the mention of the Imperium. “I would offer you the only cabin on this ship, if that would make the trip more pleasant, but we only have about an hour and a half until we arrive. Still,” Vane winked, “I’m offering you the only cabin on the ship,” he pulled out a key from his pocket and knocked on the deck with his boot, “right under here.”

This sailor, it seemed, wasn’t much preoccupied with manoeuvring. Dorian took the key that was being offered.

“You move fast, Captain.” To the Void with it, there was someone attractive - though not in the same way Ray was, not to mention perceptive and straightforward.

“Like I said, no more than an hour and a half. If you’d like to warm up with a drink.”

“I like a challenge, so I shall not lock the door from the inside.”

“Then I’ll go give some orders and join you shortly. There’s brandy in the chest. Make yourself at home, Dorian.” Edmund saluted and quickly descended the few stairs to move to the bow. Dorian, in turn, swung the band the key was hanging from around his wrist. He made to go, and cursed when he found himself face to face with Cole instead.

“He thinks you are very handsome, too. Am I handsome?” 

“Are you what?” 

“You say you’re handsome all the time. Am I? I can’t tell.”

“You’re all right.” Whoever it was Cole had taken his looks from could use a good haircut, proper posture and a new wardrobe. Still, he didn’t look monstrous or unnatural, and by itself that was a miracle. As was a question that didn’t hit right where it hurt.

“Is Ray handsome?”

Now the questions were getting back into uncomfortable territory.

“He is,” Dorian admitted, “but there is more than that to him, you know.” He didn’t really know the names of the things from which this _”more”_ was made up.

“Yes! He made magic from the rifts!” Cole sounded as if he had just healed the hurts of a few dozens. “And he asked someone to make me a new hat just like my old one!”

“I’m not sure a demonstrably vile taste in hats was what I had in mind. Go back to the soldiers, Cole, I’ll see you in an hour and a half.”

* * *

“So, you can read.” Dorian nodded towards the crate with books. Not that this was a particular requirement, in fact it had rarely been the case in the last few years. But they had now managed a full five minutes of drinking while still at the opposite ends of the small table.

“Believe it or not, even in Ferelden you need to know how to read if you want to move up on a ship. Yes, _even_ on this one, though that was not my plan. Used to serve on a bigger one on the sea proper, but much of the trade got put on on hold with all the piracy.”

“Figures you have traveled a bit. You didn’t scream and run on sight from a Tevinter.” There had also been not a single word about magisters.

“I smuggled my little brother into the Imperium seven years ago. Stuck around for a few weeks, too.” Edmund shrugged. “Would have attracted too much attention if I’d spent them screaming.”

“I take it he was a mage? Still a child?”

“He was fifteen then. Six years into his magic and we’d managed to keep it under wraps. There was an old apostate lady who taught him, and I got him on the same ship I was serving on. Not a lot of templars on the seas. Thought I’d save up enough for my own ship in a few more years and then he’d be safe on it.”

The bloody south was making Dorian sentimental. He should be pushing this man onto the bed and not encouraging the first wistful notes that had slipped into his voice. Instead he poured more brandy into Edmund’s glass.

“What went wrong?”

“Word got out somehow. We didn’t wait for it to go wrong all the way. I gathered what I had saved up and what my father could part with, and we went to Antiva to find someone who traded in Tevinter and knew the right people. We got lucky, I suppose, a trading partner of theirs agreed to meet us. Long story short, after a week of evaluation the man took my brother in, and took us to Marothius to register him as indentured citizen in his service.”

“Ten years,” Dorian noted. “Better than the alternative here? At the time, I mean.”

“It was alright for a bit here, after the Blight. Then people started recovering, and so did the templars. The alternative was a locked tower for life, if that much. Farrell was too old and he wouldn’t have gone willingly. They would have killed him.”

“Damn you southerners with your sad tales!” Dorian didn’t feel like mocking the man’s ship any longer.

“It’s not a sad tale at all,” Edmund laughed. “We exchange a letter now and then, well not lately with all the unrest. He’s doing fine and getting an education.”

“But he’s gone from here. Why not move closer, to Antiva? Or perhaps now, if the world doesn’t end, with the Inquisitor being a mage…”

“The Vanes, we have been the town’s scribes for three generations. We can’t up and move, and my sister is already with family and ready to take over the business. Nobody will give me a good job inland in Antiva or Tevinter either. Farrell is making his own life for himself, Dorian. Has a girl he’s engaged to, has a proper future he’s been working for.”

“If you’re not from the right family, chances are you don’t rule anything in the Imperium,” Dorian scoffed. “That proper future will be something boring and inconsequential, and they’d crush him if he tries anything.”

Edmund snorted abruptly enough to almost choke on the brandy, then laughed.

“You’re properly adorable. Are you the Archon’s son or something?” He stood up with a giddy snicker. “We’re not nobility so we are never going to rule much of anything. A scribe’s office, a cargo ship, a shop, that’s as high as we can go. You try to grab for power here, and you get your head lopped off too, you know.”

Dorian could feel himself blushing from being berated, but Edmund just leaned closer over the table and his smile widened.

“You seem to have warmed up.”

So Dorian moved the bottle out of the way with one hand, and grabbed him by the shirt with the other, to mash their lips together.

* * *

“This never gets old,” Edmund smiled as Dorian heated up water in the bucket. He squeezed the cloth and dragged it down Dorian’s chest. “You are gorgeous.”

Dorian was feeling good. The bed had been narrow and little more than a cot, but Edmund had beed skilled and pretty gorgeous himself. Dorian congratulated himself on successfully avoiding any speculative comparisons with Ray. Now it was over, as it was expected, but he didn’t feel the usual need to get away.

“You did manage to make the voyage a whole lot more pleasant indeed.”

“Maybe I should consider a passenger ship then,” Edmund looked him up and down one last time before Dorian picked up his shirt. “Though the Inquisition might get more ships, too, and the lake will freeze up in a few weeks at most. The Inquisitor is a Trevelyan, after all, they’d want in on it.”

“I don’t know much about his family, not really.” Ray didn’t seem to like talking about them much, and Dorian wasn’t going to ask around.

“Well, they have a dozen trading ships and own a few of the tolling places. And his father is second in command of the Ostwick fleet, so if they want a ship safe, chances are it will happen. The lyrium one was theirs.”

“The lyrium one?”

“For the rebels in Rivain.” Edmund blinked, matching Dorian’s surprised expression. “Don’t they tell you of these things? There are a few hundred in the south of Rivain, more than there are in Ostagar. The Inquisition sent lyrium to both groups, that’s why the Chantry has been fretting again. Starkhaven even more so, but nobody cares for them now, the Inquisition will get food to Ferelden one way or the other, if it’s needed.”

“Archon’s son or something, remember? Such trivialities are beneath me.” Dorian shook his head. He really wasn’t being told much of anything, but logically Ray spending hours in the war room should have made things happen. “What is Starkhaven’s problem there?”

“They placed sanctions on trade with Ferelden when Their Majesties offered refuge to the mages. Maybe that Tale of the Champion book isn’t entirely made up and their prince really has an obsession with the Chantry and the mages.”

Edmund was fully dressed now and moved Dorian’s hands aside to button up the mage’s waistcoat himself. When he was done, he pulled Dorian closer and pecked his lips.

“It’s been lovely but now I have to go get us ready to dock. I think we are sailing off right away again, too, so… Stay safe, Dorian.”

Dorian nodded. “You too.”

Edmund left and Dorian picked up the small shaving mirror with a sigh. The wind and the sex had done far too much damage to his hair to fix with just water.

“He wanted to ask you to write to his brother.” Cole’s voice made Dorian’s fingers drop the mirror and only magic saved it from shattering on the floor.

“Kaffas! Cole, what are you doing here?” He floated the mirror to the table with more force than necessary. “You can’t just watch on… people in beds!”

“Why didn’t he ask?”

“Because that’s how you ruin a perfectly nice encounter.” There was nothing more transient than a bit of fun with a sailor, and he really should have gotten that bit with Ray over with as early as Haven, when there had been nothing to lose. “Cole, I don’t know how much you know about these things, but spying on people having sex isn’t appreciated.”

“I wasn’t spying,” Cole pouted. “I wasn’t in the Spire either, but sometimes mages would sneak out into corners when the templars weren’t watching. Is it usually done in beds? Because The Iron Bull…”

“What? Maker… ah… yes, usually.” Dorian shuddered when the rest of Cole’s words sank in. Ray had said he’d been privileged in the Circle, but Dorian had never much considered just what the baseline had been. Stupid southerners with their sad tales. “Cole… do you know how Ray feels about this?”

He’d made a fuss about Cole asking personal questions in front of everybody, and in front of Ray, and now he was doing something not so dissimilar, if not worse. It made him a bit angry at himself, but Ray seemed to be the one person whose feelings Cole didn’t dissect.

“No,” Cole shook his head, looking hurt himself. “It’s very hard when he’s sad.”

“I see,” Dorian sighed. Not much of a chance to understand Ray if even Cole was lost. “Let’s just do our best that he isn’t then. And don’t watch people having sex, all right?”

“All right,” Cole dutifully confirmed.

* * *

_23 Firstfall, 9:41_

Dorian woke up late and found the fortress brimming with exaltation. A raven from Redcliffe had brought news of the Inquisitor slaying the dragon that plagued the lands in the town’s vicinity. There was no word of any grave injuries or casualties, and Dorian sighed with relief.

There were three new sets of clothes waiting for him, and they fit almost from the start. The two that were meant for venturing outside of the castle were even practical and warm, and although the cut was a bit simpler, they still carried enough of Dorian’s style. Ray had requested the pattern from Halamshiral, it turned out, which might have brought Dorian’s mind back into confusion if there hadn’t been new clothes for Sera in the room as well. None of those based on anything requested from Halamshiral.

The seamstress, who wasn’t Harritt, and hence less inclined to grunt and spit upon seeing him, didn’t take long to make a few final adjustments to the indoor clothes, and promised the other two would be ready before dinner. Seeing as it was too late to find any breakfast in the hall, Dorian made his way down to the hidden library, grabbing some food from the nearby kitchens.

“Pavus. Didn’t know you were here.” Favilla was sitting at the desk, writing. Ray had brought the mage to Dorian not an hour after he had mentioned hitting a wall with some Nevarran text. She was Nevarran, somewhere in her fifties, and once poised to be taking care of Nevarra’s undead. Some mix of her own personal reasons and political instability had instead resulted in her having to make do with the Circle. “I am afraid I lied to the servant looking for you, in that case. The Lady Ambassador wanted to see you.”

“Do you know what for?”

“Post from Tevinter, I believe. Also something about fourteen bottles of wine you would need to replace.”

“Just fourteen? Hmm. I should consider myself lucky.”

Favilla smiled at him as if he was an apprentice and went back to her work. She was an all right sort. Not much love for necromancy in particular, but liked good wine and more spice in her food.

* * *

“Lord Pavus.” Josephine greeted him more somberly than usual. “Please take a seat.”

Dorian had a bad feeling about this. For Josephine not to share everyone’s merriment at the news of Trevelyan’s success and safety, something had to have gone wrong. It didn’t seem a matter of a few bottles of wine. He greeted and sat down.

“I hope the Imperium hasn’t decided to officially embrace Corypheus’ plans for revival and declare the Inquisition an enemy,” he said, tartly.

“It seems highly unlikely that Archon Radonis would find Corypheus a compelling master. Few monarchs relish a self-styled god showing up to claim their throne. The attitude towards the Inquisition is harder to judge. While this is one of the cases in which the Inquisitor being a mage might be beneficial…”

“Still too much Orlais and Southern Chantry,” Dorian concluded. “There is little point vying for Tevinter’s favor anyway. I think the Imperium gave up on the idea of allies a long time ago. For the time being my countrymen will sneer at the South’s predicament behind their silk handkerchiefs.”

“And if the Inquisitor succeeds?” Josephine bored her sharp eyes into Dorian.

“Oh, I think they’re far more frightened what he’ll do if he succeeds.” People in power didn’t like change they hadn’t affected, and neither did they like other people making better use of the chaos to get power. “Then again, who knows? The Archon has a daughter, a more favored way of bringing in fresh blood than the literal alternative. I’m sure they will be able to work with that bloodline.”

“I would be grateful to you if you refrain from mentioning in front of others both this solution and its alternative, Lord Pavus. This cannot be the Inquisition’s image of the future.”

“Too unlikely, you reckon?”

Josephine sighed and went to a safe in the wall. Dorian could see it was filled with documents, but the Ambassador pulled out a single paper, then handed it to him. The hand was unfamiliar, the letter in Tevene.

_For His Reverence, Provincial Governor of the lands formerly known as Ferelden and the Free Marches:_

_Our agent in the Imperial Court has struck. Empress Celene is dead, and Grand Duke Gaspard was executed for the crime. Orlais is in chaos. Nevarra has sworn to the New God._ _Our armies are moving into place. Within the month, the Imperium will again control the lands from the Boeric Ocean to the Sundered Sea._

_In His Name, we rise again._

_Archon Calpernia_

“Is that…”

“Yes,” Josephine nodded. “The Inquisitor took it from the Redcliffe future. It was to Alexius, as you can imagine.”

“It wasn’t a particularly good future for Alexius. Or anyone, for that matter.”

“While that’s true,” Josephine took back the paper he held to her, “the events described in it didn’t take long to transpire. Which means that there were many in power in Tevinter who were quick to act.” The door of the safe slid closed and the runes on it glowed as they did their job in securing it again. “Preventing Redcliffe from happening made sure that this particular future wouldn’t come true. But if the Inquisitor is victorious over Corypheus, do you really think it so likely that the Imperium will still spurn him?”

“’ _Spurn him_ ’? You think he would approach them first? And here I though you were on his side.”

“I am,” Josephine’s eyes narrowed only slightly before she sat down. “But we must think of what comes after, and what would that be, you think, if the Chantry demands that the mages go back into their towers?”

“You seem to think he’d want war. More than that, seek Tevinter’s collaboration.” True, Ray had prodded him about the possibility of Tevinter allying with the Inquisition, but Dorian’s reply had been much the same to what he had given to Josephine. Tevinter wasn’t interested in allying the South.

“He has been pretty clear on the former.” Josephine hesitated for a moment. “There was a request for assistance from both King Markus of Nevarra and Archon Radonis last week. A Venatory cell that needed to be cleared from their border. Archon Radonis requested our help as a ‘neutral party’, whereas Nevarra demanded allegiance.”

Obviously Ray had assisted the Archon and done his work for him, or Josephine wouldn’t be telling him about this.

“It was the right decision,” Josephine nodded to confirm his guess, “and I would have recommended the same should he have asked. But his reasoning couldn’t have been mine.”

“Lady Montilyet, with all due respect, this amounts to little more than a favor. The Imperium simply used him, as one should have expected, without offering anything in return. If you want me to convince him that it won’t lead to any mutual appreciation, I will do so.”

“We don’t know how much longer the road ahead is. At every turn every noble house, every throne, will be waiting to see what the Inquisition does next. If we want this war to end with peace, we will need the perfect equilibrium.”

“Which is why he has you. Unless all this is the preamble to telling me to keep my distance, which would be perfectly understandable.”

“No,” Josephine hurriedly said, “that is not what we are asking of you.” Dorian noted the interesting use of pronouns. There must have been an Inquisition council or two since they had left for the bogs. “Everything you say can be taken out of context and turned into fodder for a scandal. Jokes about Tevinter, simple stories about everyday life. He listens to you, and the mages in turn hang onto his every word.”

“I can see why the bits about mages being able to walk on a street would be viewed as preposterous,” Dorian crossed his arms and wondered whether Ray had to listen to appeasing talks on a regular basis. Josephine sighed wearily.

“For this to end well they need to be accepted walking the streets just like their countrymen, not like mages of Tevinter. Things are going well, beyond our expectations, and as long as they do, he will make them even better.”

The second part remained unsaid, but Dorian was inclined to agree that bad would lead to worse. There was nothing to envy about Josephine’s task of building the Inquisition’s, and Ray’s, image. He nodded and watched Josephine’s eyes soften.

“I do believe you have Ray’s best interests at heart. For all that you delight in mocking them from time to time.” Dorian wasn’t as much surprised at the familiar way she referred to Ray as he was oddly pleased that she had used it in conversation with him, like some acknowledgement. He had wondered how much truth there was to the gossip he’d heard about the two while still in Haven, and concluded that the gossip had been unsubstantiated, much like the very similar gossip that featured Dorian himself as of late. It was the most ridiculous of situations to evoke jealousy, and yet it did.

“Please be assured that you being from Tevinter doesn’t put you on a list of suspects. This is not why I called for you.” Dorian thought at his mussed undergarments with some amusement, and that Leliana’s list of suspects was obviously not the same. Josephine’s voice had grown more serious, however, so he dropped that line of thought. If Tevinter wasn’t the topic, then…

“Felix?” He had avoided Alexius, pushed all thoughts away, but now he felt a lump in his throat as they all came back.

“I am sorry.” She handed him two letters, either unopened or very skillfully re-sealed. “They are not replies. Our infrastructure in the Imperium is unfortunately very modest. He had already passed away when his father’s letter from after the trial arrived. Felix had contacted a friend of yours, Magister Maevaris Tilani, who took care of some of the formalities and the correspondence.”

Dorian turned the two letters, both envelopes addressed to him in Mae’s hand. What a finale to a warning speech. If he hadn’t folded already, he would be doing so now.

“Have you told Alexius yet?”

“No,” Josephine shook her head, them put yet another letter on the table in front of her. “The news arrived two days ago, but we thought it best to wait. Of course, if you’d rather not talk to Alexius, then we will wait for the Inquisitor to return.”

* * *

Varric was in his usual place at the dwarven table in the small alcove adjacent to the main hall. There were none of his usual agents around, only Cole, sitting cross-legged on a chair. The dwarf was drinking and from experience Dorian knew he didn’t drink to get drunk, so maybe he was going to keep the mage sober as well.

“You owe me twenty royals, Varric. I’d like them paid in candied dates.” Dorian pulled out a chair and sat down after picking up a glass that looked clean.

“I’m never playing with your crazy Tevinter rules again, Sparkler.” Varric pushed the bottle toward the mage and turned back to Cole. “Okay, Kid, try it again like we practiced.”

“Two pairs beats one pair. Four of a kind beats two pairs.” Cole started diligently reciting the rules for Wicked Grace and by the time his voice had gained some confidence, he slipped into rummaging through the dwarf’s head. “She slips the ace of dragons into a thigh-high boot, calls to the barman for another round. Blondie stares at the table, angry, always angry.”

“Focus, Kid, you can’t beat four of a kind with bad memories.” Varric put down the cards and stretched his hand to take the bottle again, then drank straight from it. “Why are you here, Sparkler? From the look on your face I can only assume you weren’t there for the heroic dragon slaying.”

“I came back with Cole after we got out of the bogs. I wish I hadn’t. Josephine greeted me with a letter that Felix, you met him in Redcliffe, has died.”

“Shit,” Varric muttered. “Sorry to hear that, Sparkler.”

He stretched a hand below the table and pulled a fresh bottle, then handed it to Dorian, still holding on his own. So much for not getting drunk, this dwarven stuff was strong.

“His father knows yet?”

Dorian stopped pouring into his glass, drank whatever was there, then resumed filling it up again.

“That’s where I spent my afternoon. He had been expecting it, we both had. Felix was ill, and thus on borrowed time.” He swirled the liquid in the glass.

“Something even Tevinter’s healers couldn’t manage then?”

“That bloody idiot!” Dorian drank and refilled the glass again, blinking furiously when he felt tears coming up. Why was it so difficult to either condemn or forgive the ones you cared for? “It was the blight sickness. There is no cure, but we came so far, we gave Felix years. Alexius wasted all this time chasing after _more_ instead of making the best of what he had.”

“I tried to help,” Cole spoke up. “He was very nice to me, but didn’t want to stop hurting.”

“Parents who just won’t let go… sounds familiar. Mine were exiled from Orzammar. I was born on the surface, you know, but they… they thought nothing was worth it up here.” That explained some of the banter between the dwarf and Solas, who’d occasionally start a tirade on reclaiming the dwarven empire. Before Dorian could sneak in something snarky about the resident Fade expert, Varric continued, “I would say that it might be easier to just lose whatever you’re losing quickly and irrevocably, but it isn’t.” His words weren’t slurring, but his eyes were focused on something invisible in front of him, as if in a trance, or in deep thought. “On the Deep Roads expedition that got Hawke his riches, we were betrayed and trapped. Wandered around for days until we found the way out. Hawke’s brother, Carver, got infected by the darkspawn. So… Hawke had to give him a quick death.”

Dorian sat there, stunned. That wasn’t something Varric had included in his novel. The Tale’s Champion was written as someone who passed through life without being touched by it, or by death, adventure after adventure, and then just vanished after the chantry explosion in Kirkwall. The book had curiously enough made it to the Imperium, mostly due to the subject matter. Mages who dueled the Arishok and gave the Southern Chantry a good kicking didn’t go unnoticed. But they didn’t go around carrying the sort of tragedy with them either.

“How does one recover from that?”

Varric’s lips curled in a smile that was more of a grimace. “I don’t think he ever did. Carver was insufferable, but all their fights stopped mattering in that moment.” The dwarf finally tore his eyes free to look at Dorian. “Three years later the traitor who had caused this lay dead, and it didn’t change a thing.”

“You tried to make him calm, Varric,” Cole said soothingly, then barked in another voice, “We’re done talking about this.”

Dorian was missing most of the pieces of that particular puzzle, and the ones he had didn’t seem to fit together, so he sighed and drank.

“You didn’t approve and you still tried to help. And you were sad when he left.” Cole looked at Varric, expression halfway between revelation and incomprehension. “Ray said people didn’t do that. He didn’t want to write my note to Cullen.”

“Don’t go looking for compassion there, Kid. Shit, by now he must know Cullen is here.” Varric put his hand on top of the bottle’s mouth, then leaned in to rest his head against it. Dorian was getting annoyed.

“What is this about, Varric?”

“Hawke. I asked him to come.”

Dorian looked at Varric as if the dwarf had lost his mind.

“Cassandra is going to kill you. And him as well, I imagine.”

“Trevelyan won’t allow it.” Varric’s reply was surprisingly firm and self-assured. “At least as far as Hawke is concerned. The Seeker will have to contend with my persona. That is, unless Anders decided to follow, but let’s hope Hawke had more sense than that.”

Dorian had forgotten his drink, although the effects of it were obvious when he spoke his amazement way too loudly.

“Anders? The one who blew up the chantry? Are you out of your mind?” Alexius’ more or less pardon had gone somewhat unacknowledged, but everybody knew who Anders was and if he was put on one of those makeshift trials, well, the unity might not hold.

“Keep it down,” Varric shushed him with a hiss. “Or do you want to have Cassandra throttle us on the spot?”

“Oh, you mean the Seeker who told me she’d drag me to the Circle? What makes you think she’d be upset about the people who lit that fire waltzing in?”

“Like I said,” Varric sighed, “Hawke ought to be alone.”

“Even so,” Dorian insisted, “Ray could do without any further animosity on that front.” He was clutching his glass so tightly that it threatened to break in his hand. To think he had been the one to get warned by Josephine. “Why would you do that?”

Hawke was the one who had killed Corypheus once, badly so, but Varric had been there. There was no new information to get out of him, and judging by the guilty look the dwarf was giving him, he knew it as well.

“It’s a chance to get Hawke out of this mess,” Varric finally said. “A tragedy I failed to prevent.” He laughed bitterly. “All those years ago it was me who tracked down Anders and got him involved. You know how that ended. Now, with the Inquisition backing the mages, Hawke would agree to help. And if he does and all is good, then he can walk out clean.”

Dorian buried his face in his hands. “Varric, I swear I’ll set fire to your chest hair if your perceived duty to get someone out of a mess ends up getting Ray in one. And please don’t introduce me to people if you’re going to take notes and credit for what happens.”

“You arranged your own introduction, Sparkler. Though, wound your vanity as it may, it didn’t make as much of an impression as you might have hoped.” Varric set out to gather the scattered on the table cards, Cole still holding on his hand. “We were given this description of a grim healer mage. A minute into the conversation he was telling Hawke about his cat. Admittedly it took them three more years to move on from there.”

“That sounds better than the majority of what I remember of your book, maybe you should have included it.” Dorian stretched to look into Cole’s cards, which the boy helpfully turned to him. Cole tended to keep whatever face cards came to him and throw away the rest, no matter what was there.

“Hawke was pretty damn adamant about his personal life not winding up in one of my stories. What do you have, Cole?”

“A royal family,” Cole proudly spread his cards on the table. “There’s a crown on his head, but a sword, too. His head didn’t want either.”

“Royal duties, Kid. Don’t talk to the cards.” 

“Which explains you writing a book on him,” Dorian bitingly noted. “Apparently one full of lies.”

“They are true lies, Sparkler, that’s the point of it.” Varric slipped his own pair of drakes into the deck. “Someone had to set that story straight. How about the one we are in now? The Inquisitor is a true protagonist, but is the shadow of a hero too much for you? What is it with you mages anyway? Is a prolonged period of longing glances and shy smiles an obligatory part of the process?”

“I don’t see how this is even remotely your business, Varric.” He was still digesting the information of Hawke and Anders being partners in more than the cause. It sounded exactly like something out of Varric’s less heroic tales. Things hardly worked out like that.

“I’m just saying, might want to move faster. I hear the letters from Orlais are growing more explicit by the day. Got my hands on a few, too. Amazing what some people want to do to a holy figure.”

“I don’t think he does any of this, Varric.” At least not the way Dorian did, and had done two days ago. “I think I’ll just stick to telling him stories. Things are a lot smoother when I’m talking about something silly like a café in Minrathous. Wait, that’s apparently too revolutionary.”

“If it were just the stories you’d be rather late to that party, Sparkler. Let’s just say that Chuckles simply loves hearing himself talk and had the Herald’s full attention for weeks. And his starstruck gaze.”

“Solas likes being listened to,” Cole pouted in defense of his other teacher. “I like listening to Solas, too.”

“Are you jealous because Trevelyan doesn’t care for _your_ bibliography, Varric?” Dorian laughed. “And you don’t spend nearly enough time in the rotunda, or you’d know that Solas can still get all the attention he wants.”

“Now you’re the one sounding jealous,” Varric smirked.

“Is Solas handsome?” Cole tried to connect the dots.

Dorian groaned and pushed himself up from the table as Varric burst into almost unnaturally loud laughter.

“Andraste’s ass, Sparkler, what have you been teaching him?”

* * *

_24 Firstfall, 9:41_

By the time Dorian learned that Ray had arrived the previous night it was past noon and a servant rolled a cart of trays to the war room. The nobles in the hall were beside themselves, clamoring to see the severed dragon head up close. The peasants in the courtyard had been cheering for at least an hour, as if it had been the head of Corypheus’ dragon, and now it was time for the more civilized crowd to fawn over it while holding a glass of wine in one hand and a fan in the other. 

Ray didn’t emerge from the war room to reap some of the admiration, so Dorian went back to the library and made himself comfortable in his chair, picking up on a re-read of the _Tale of the Champion_ from where he had abandoned it the previous day. A few hours later he was on the last pages of the book and still hadn’t managed to decipher which of the lies were true.

“Back to haunting the alcove, Dorian?”

Leliana had stopped nearby on the way to her own haunting spot. That likely meant they had let Ray free at last, unless he’d need to catch up on his Orlesian classes to pay for the few days of absence. Dorian had to admit that Blackwall was surprisingly well-versed in polite Orlesian, but Ray’s conversations with the warrior tended to run out of topics of shared interest, which was rather less surprising.

“So Varric knew where the Champion was all along.” Leliana chuckled when she saw the cover of Dorian’s book. “That’s the last time we send Cassandra to interrogate.”

“Did you warn Ray at least?”

“Warn him of Hawke? Don’t you think he deserves a pleasant surprise?” Leliana’s eyes sparkled. “Besides, that would have meant alerting the Commander as well. By the way, Dorian, would you mind negotiating contact with your friend Maevaris? We could use some more trusted people in the Imperium. Nothing official, of course.”

“Of course.” Mae could use some help, whatever she was up to. “Though trusted just like that? No further raids on my undergarments, no warnings on what to do or not do?”

Leliana feigned a pensive look. “You could not introduce him to excessive drinking, I suppose. Or to attempts at self-medicating a hangover by knocking himself out into the Fade with some concoction. Though that one might have been on Solas.”

The spymaster laughed the loudest Dorian had ever heard her, then left him to his book. Dorian shook his head, unable to stop a smile at the thought of what the morning must have been like. From what he had observed on their travels, Ray took literally two seconds to go from asleep to awake. Getting him out from under the covers and into the cold was a different matter entirely. Had he clutched at his pillow, mumbling, one foot in the Fade? Or perhaps even waved it around and gotten a poor servant’s face? Or Leliana’s? Leliana would have dodged, maybe Josephine’s.

He still had some of that smile left when Ray’s voice came from the rotunda below and then the sound of his steps sounded on the stairs. Dorian expected to get consoled about Felix and he wasn’t wrong. He threw Josephine’s warning to the wind and told Ray more about him and life in the Alexius household.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have a [custom, red-haired Hawke](http://imgur.com/a/eWj3k), named Ennis. Occasionally I name the mabari Garrett, but just for the meta-fun. Also, as one might be able to tell, I thought the canon appearance of Hawke in DA:I very lacking - from start to finish, and both will happen differently here. This story is now officially Justice positive.

_20 Firstfall, 9:41_

Ennis dropped the wine bottle into the sea. The sound it made plunging was clearer than the circles that formed around it, immediately swallowed up by the ship’s trail. Isabela had been right, they’d had good tailwind and were quickly shortening the distance between them and the Waking Sea, despite the wide detour they had made in order to avoid most other ships. A day more, perhaps.

His eyes hurt from lack of sleep combined with the glittering of the rising sun on the water’s surface. The steps behind him were Isabela’s and he didn’t move to acknowledge her, only lowering his head onto his arms on the bulwark.

“Tsk,” the newly self-proclaimed Admiral leaned over his back, putting a heavy pelt cloak around him, and stretched her neck to look into the water. Isabela’s hair fell next to his face, soft and smelling of soap, and he couldn’t help smiling. The Siren’s Tail had her own trio of apostates now, her captain apparently having grown too used to a daily hot bath courtesy of Merrill.

“I hope this one was empty, Hawke.”

“It was,” he hummed. It had taken him a while to get used to drinking again. The last time had been two years ago or even longer. It hadn’t done anything to put him to sleep for more than two or three hours a night, and even those had been scattered around plenty of staring into the darkness of his cabin.

“I thought you were going to jump after that first bottle.” Isabela moved next to him and leaned on an elbow. “Just say the word, Hawke, and I turn this ship around.”

“I can’t. I have to go.”

Isabela’s fingers brushed against the hair over his ear, then curled to toy with a strand. The walnut’s color didn’t last for more than a few weeks and it had been months since he had last needed a disguise. A sudden pull jolted him.

“Just a grey hair. Red hair is so pretty in the sunrise at sea. I should hire more Fereldans.” Isabela reached lower to draw the hood of the cloak over his head, then let go and sighed. “Sweet thing, you’re making a mistake. Go back to your mage and spirit, and leave this Inquisition take care of the world.”

Hawke lifted his head and rubbed at his eyes. Isabela deflected all the time, and she had been doing the same for the last three days. They had spoken little of their lives in the three years they hadn’t seen each other or of what they intended to do in future. Yet she cared more than she let on, or he wouldn’t be standing on her ship.

“Did you look into separating them? There might be someone with the knowledge in Rivain. Might have been, at least.”

“No,” Hawke smiled, ruefully. They had largely ignored Rivain, thinking the mages there safe and independent enough, at least compared to the rest. Reality had taken them by surprise. “We don’t want that.” Her lips curved and his followed. “I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that you were so accepting.”

“Hey, I called it first! We can go over my friend-fiction later today, and you’ll correct the more boring inaccuracies. Give me your endorsement for publishing.” Isabela laughed. “Is it true you sent money to some Antivan critic who dissed Varric’s novel?”

“I had better things to spend my money on,” Hawke smiled, “but I sent him a note.”

* * *

_15 Guardian, 9:38_

_They laughed when they got hold of a copy of_ Tale of the Champion. _If the muscled black-haired hero on the cover was what the Chantry was after, it was small wonder they’d had few templars to deal with. Of course, the more reasonable explanation was that it took the Chantry more than mere months to start moving. Anders read it first, over the span of three evenings next to the campfire under the Nevarran night sky. Occasionally he’d look over the edge of the pages, with wistfulness and guilt._

 _Ennis didn’t read the book in its entirety. The next night had found them in a small cave, with Anders fast asleep recuperating from the exhaustion of the day. Four templars had surprised them, gotten close enough to dampen their grasp on the Fade. The last such encounter had resulted in the mabari throwing himself in to take point and finding death before Anders could cast a healing spell. The last of the family he’d left Ferelden with was gone. Ironically they had gone unnoticed much easier after that, without a Fereldan dog attracting everyone’s attention._

_This time Justice had come out, sudden and unexpected, and more himself than even in Feynriel’s dream. The Fade had come gushing back in, all of it Justice and what he still carried with himself, but instead of leaving a gap for Anders to cast, the spirit had proceeded to tear a sword from a templar, together with the templar’s arm, then surge through the melee until only he was standing, suddenly stiff and completely immobile. Then he had fled, leaving Anders to deal with the load his muscles had been through._

_Ennis read a few pages, then skipped a chapter to read a few more, and again, until he was at the end of the book. It was a book about Kirkwall’s Champion, a semi-nameless Hawke. Still rebellious and irreverent, but in a narrative full of adventures and nights at the Hanged Man. Even Kirkwall was barely there, at least the Kirkwall Ennis had come to know. Meredith was scarcely present, as was Anders. Justice was missing entirely, together with the Mage Underground and its demise. He dropped the book onto the small fire glyph and sat there dazed for a few seconds before he turned his eyes to the fire to check if the smoke would make its way out of the cavern. He found himself instead facing the pale blue light of Justice’s unreadable eyes._

_Ennis raised himself and stepped over the small fire to sit next to where Anders was resting his head._

_“I am not that person. I am here, with you, because I want to be.” He could never tell where Justice was looking, whether it was at the curled and blackened pages in the fire or at him. Neither could he tell how much convincing Anders, or Justice for that matter, took. That first night on Isabela’s ship he had opened the chest from his lodgings, filled with as much money as he had managed to scramble together on a week’s notice, and had taken out the pillow Anders’ mother had embroidered. At the time it had seemed like that had been enough to show that he had been willing and prepared for all that was to come, but the book had been just the latest thing to call guilt forth once more._

_”We… Anders is afraid again after today,” Justice said in his gruff voice, perhaps even with a hint of exasperation. “For you as well.”_

_The takeover had been unexpected and complete, and the carnage not a pretty sight, so Hawke wasn’t entirely too surprised by that. He slipped on the ground carefully until he was lying facing the spirit, then laced his fingers with Anders’. The hand twitched minutely, but the light remained only in Anders’ eyes._

_”It was an emergency, but you protected us. I trust you.” The hand around his tightened and Ennis felt the Fade again._

_”Yes. We trust you too. We will protect you.” The Fade was getting even stronger and now the cracks of light had spread down, gleaming from under the blanket. Hawke felt half in a dream, his eyelids heavy, whether it was from feeling the Fade or from the long day._

_”And I will help free more mages,” Hawke mumbled as Justice raised his other hand holding the end of the blanket. The air smelled like storm and thunder when the hand draped the blanket over his shoulder._

_”Rest. I will keep watch.” There was something like serenity on Justice’s face._

* * *

_20 Firstfall, 9:41_

“I suppose I have myself to blame, really. I told him not to write about my life.” Hawke smiled. “And I am absolutely not going to endorse your friend-fiction.”

“Spoilsport,” Isabela huffed, but smiled back. “What if I put in some plot? Or put in a romantic ending of mages free, and quiet domesticity with pronouns slipping?”

“I think then you might get chased on the seas for more than piracy.” He felt a bit more awake now, and at the same time longing for some sleep.

“You joke, but the coast is recovering, and their ships with it. I’ve stayed away from the Waking Sea in the past few months, and soon it will be same old arm of the law everywhere.”

“Are you saying goodbye in Amaranthine?”

“Not if you tell those Wardens whatever you have to tell them and let me take you back home.”

“It is not home, Isabela, you know that. Even if it weren’t for Corypheus, I have to see what the Inquisition really is. We can’t stay in Rivain forever.” The locals were friendly, even protective of the mages, especially as those had been protective against the templars, red or otherwise, and quick enough to come up with a barrier spell to surround the rifts. Still, Rivain was unstable with both Chantry-favoring nobility and the Qunari in the north. The Annulment in Dairsmuid hadn’t even been the first time the Chantry had slaughtered there in the name of the Maker. “With Corypheus around Anders will never be safe. Let’s just hope the Amaranthine Wardens are still unaffected.”

“What about Amell? Your cousin, I mean. If Warden mages are this Corypheus’ favorite breakfast, she would be in trouble.”

“She is not in Amaranthine, and she’s almost out of the Order.” If Aileas managed to get a cure, Anders would be safe. Not just from Corypheus, but from the looming Calling as well. “Did she manage to learn anything from Merrill?”

“Hard to say,” Isabela shrugged. “Cleansing a mirror from the blight with blood magic is apparently not the same as cleansing your own blood… with blood magic. A whole lot of blood talk, but Merrill was happy. The elves of old had walked through those mirrors, did you know that? At least Amell had witnessed someone walk through one.”

Isabela leaned back and looked into the sky. Merrill had been right then, just one more thing she had been right about.

“It’s so strange, Hawke, isn’t it? They were both so adult, so serious and unlike the people they were when I first met them. I think I’ll stay on a ship forever from now on.”

“Thank you for taking care of Merrill,” Ennis muttered. “I didn’t want to abandon her after everything.”

“She thrived on this ship, and yet…” Isabela’s smile was melancholic, “she went on to become like a Keeper to that alienage. Even if she always insisted she wasn’t fit to be one.”

“Amell, on the other hand, was adamant about proving she wasn’t Warden material.” And luckily so, if she succeeded in her quest. It had been a surprise when Amell had mentioned Isabela and her ship. “How well do you know her?”

He had met his cousin for a few days, on only two occasions. He cherished the first real conversation he’d had with her more than he did the contacts, papers and addresses of Warden outposts she had left at their disposal. It had been the first time he had truly started doubting Justice’s simplicity.

* * *

_22 Bloomingtide, 9:38_

_”Sorry about the initial reception,” he smiled nervously as Aileas stood next to her horse, ready to depart. “I didn’t know what to expect and Anders was always so vague about you.”_

_”I am glad they have someone to watch over them. Even more so that it is another Amell.”_

_”I am a Hawke,” he said automatically, and Aileas blinked, then looked down again._

_”Yes… sorry. You are the first relative I’ve met in more than twenty years,” her lips stretched in a smile, “so I had no real expectations for what the reception would be like.”_

_”You didn’t look for your family?”_

_”I stopped, eventually. The one at the Gallows was Tranquil. One in Antiva didn’t pass his Harrowing. The eldest one I hadn’t ever met, the rest I have no clear memories of. Not even of my parents. It was easier to stop looking.”_

_Hawke felt his eyes stinging, and thanked his father for having kept them away from that. He had lost his family in the end as well, one by one, but Anders had been right. The memories were still with him._

_”I am sorry again, for the pain I caused them. I will do what I can, but,” she sighed, “at the peak of my fame I didn’t get the power to spare him the Joining.”_

_”Wait,” Hawke blurted as Aileas put one foot into the stirrup, “do you think Justice has changed?”_

_She turned from her waist and looked at him in confusion._

_”Maybe… I wasn’t counting on getting forgiveness from him after abandoning my people.”_

_”But is he still Justice? Or is he Vengeance?” It hurt to ask like that because Justice never called himself anything but Justice._

_”Seems like a very muddy line in semantics to me.” Aileas shrugged but stepped back down and turned to him. “The first words I heard from him in the Fade were about freedom and vengeance. He wanted vengeance for the life of the Warden whose body he ended up in as well. Not that one can get justice from the darkspawn, but I daresay I’ve had more meaningful conversations with one of them than I’ve had with the Chantry.”_

_She laughed briefly, then quickly mounted her horse._

_”Oh, and by the way, I distinctly remember a relationship being something he was very interested in.”_

* * *

_20 Firstfall, 9:41_

“I know her about this deep,” Isabela held up two fingers pressed together, then raised an eyebrow at what his expression must have been like. “Well, we met at the Pearl. I showed her some sparring tricks.”

“Isn’t that the, ugh, wrong equipment?”

Isabela’s vibrant laughter filled the air. “Missing it already? It doesn’t always have to be about sex. They were actual sparring tricks. I had never met a mage like her.”

“I don’t think anyone ever has.”

“Then there was the sex.”

“Did she show you some tricks with that?” Like a lightning trick.

“Oh, no. She was an innocent little thing out of that armor of hers. Wait! She did do a neat trick! She was with her first love, a very crafty lay sister. _Lay_ sister, would you think of that? Now, that one was versed in more than the Chant of Light. Anyway, they had done the gifts, and the petting and the necking, but as I gathered after, nothing beyond that. So, I sneak in an offer. Why, yes! Skipped right to the threesome!”

Hawke could only start shaking his head at the story when Isabela choked, laughing even harder.

“It must run in the family! And the sparring, you got that in there too!”

* * *

_3 Guardian, 9:41_

_The camp was abuzz with as much exaltation as nervousness. They had been decidedly victorious, with no casualties at all, but the whispers had gotten louder. Aileas bit into the meat in her hand without taking her eyes off the fire. Anders was much the same._

_A host of templars had been dealt with, as swiftly as one would have expected from the Hero of Ferelden. Her magic with a sword in hand, together with the golem accompanying her, had been the talk of the day before the attack. Now half of it was hushed murmurs about blood magic. Still, it had saved them the necessity of Justice coming out to overwhelm the suppression of the Fade, and even fewer would have been accepting of possession than of blood magic.”_

_”I’ll leave before dawn. Keep the papers, they might still be useful.”_

_There was a strange dichotomy between Anders and Justice about Amell’s blood magic. The spirit merely judged dealings with demons, or what he deemed weaker and misguided creatures of the Fade. Aileas had tricked one early on and her further knowledge on blood magic had been acquired from books and other mages alike. Somehow that got rid of most of the problem. Not so for Anders, and arguably not for the majority of the mages around them._

_”Please, stay alive,” Aileas sighed as she threw the clean bone into the fire and took another scroll of paper from her bag to hand to Ennis. Then she picked her sword and bag and stood up. “I’m going to get some sleep and then go. If I find the cure, you’ll be the first people I’ll seek out.”_

_She walked away between the fires of the other mages to the edge of the camp and Hawke rolled out the papers. Anders shuffled and sighed next to him._

_”She saved my life in Amaranthine like that. We got stuck in a room with the templars who had been after me… we would have been dead if not for her blood magic, it’s just… what’s the letter?”_

_”It’s to the dwarven Ambasadoria in Minrathous, that’s where she lives when she’s in the Imperium. If we need to run…” He couldn’t help feeling they were losing a powerful ally with Amell’s departure. Once templars managed to get close enough, there wasn’t an awful lot mages could do with the Fade, and most of the mages lost enough composure and organization with the templars at distance already._

_”We are not going to abandon them and run for our lives,” a deeper growl snuck into Anders’ voice and Hawke hurriedly rolled back the letter._

_”Of course not,” he said softly, then repeated in a firmer tone, “Of course we won’t.”_

_Amidst all the chaos and frequent desperation, the unified joy of Anders and Justice was an almost daily occurrence. “With more fire than the sun”, Merrill had called Anders’ belief and perseverance, and suddenly Ennis felt grateful for it. Amell had wanted more, much more, had told him she’d thought Anders a defeatist back in Amaranthine. Yet now she was the one who had given up making that difference, and perhaps Ennis would have never tried to, either, if his life didn’t have Anders in it, and Justice now, too. He couldn’t blame her too much, of course, considering what she was setting out to achieve now._

_Hawke moved closer and wrapped his arms around Anders’ waist._

_”Let’s stay alive,” he murmured into the shabby pauldron and closed his eyes. A hand pressed into his back with strength and urgency, and the air smelled of ozone. Ennis pushed aside the thought of being discovered and let himself relax._

* * *

_21 Firstfall, 9:41_

The officer at the port equated, probably wisely so, every unknown to him ship to a potential raiders’ invasion. A boatfull of soldiers made it to the Siren’s Tail before they were allowed to dock. Once he was shown the parchment with Amell’s carte blanche, however, he was all smiles. He introduced himself and didn’t seem to care about inquiring any further about the names they had given, nor waste time with any of the ship’s documentation. Hawke sighed with relief. The heavy parchment with Amell’s name and seal had stopped working for getting into the Circles pretty quickly. Amaranthine was apparently one of the places where it still carried weight. He preferred using it rather than the Inquisitor’s endorsement, both for staying out of the Inquisition’s eyes for as long as possible, and because he was coming on a raiders’ ship, after all.

“Hmm, ‘acting on my orders and for the good of Thedas.’ I like the style.” Isabela handed him back the paper the officer had returned. “The Inquisitor is so annoyingly specific.”

“I still don’t know what to make of it. An opening, a trap or a bad joke? Which is it?”

The news about the Conclave, the Breach, the Inquisition and the alliance with the mages had made it to the coast of Rivain almost simultaneously. They had been spared the weeks of anxiety that had swept through Thedas in lieu of standing before finished facts. Yet the leaders of the Inquisition made little sense together, and Ennis didn’t know just what their vision of the future was.

Amaranthine sparkled in the sunlight just like the sea around it did. Hawke had passed through here only once, more than a year ago, and at night, to board a ship. The prosperity hadn’t been as obvious then as it was now, and he thought the city being called ‘the jewel of the north’ fit. The streets were surprisingly clean, the marketplace loud and filled with a colorful multitude, a proper port city where ships from all over Thedas docked. On the other side of the channel, beyond the islands, was Ostwick, and Ostwick Ennis knew well enough. They had tried to make it into the Circle there two years prior, only to find it as good as sealed as a direct result of Kirkwall. Hawke wasn’t sure he would be welcomed by an Ostwick mage.

Vigil’s Keep was similarly lively, with people going in and out, some obviously mages. It hadn’t been more than five minutes after Hawke had handed the letter from Anders to a servant when the seneschal of the castle came to take him to Nathaniel Howe personally.

The cabinet had been Amell’s, Ennis could instantly tell from Anders’ tales. He was no stranger to runes, having had Bodahn and Sandal living at the estate for years, and obviously not to the odd staff or two propped around the place. The room felt hence familiar, almost like home. Nathaniel looked much like Hawke had last seen him some years ago, though staring at the former Champion of Kirkwall with more interest now.

“We were warned about Corypheus by Leliana, but there wasn’t much I could tell her at the time. Weisshaupt is quiet on Clarel, the Warden-Commander of Orlais. She is, however, a mage, and that makes things even more suspect, given Corypheus. We did well by ignoring her call to gather in Orlais, but that also resulted in us not knowing anything about what was going on. Until two days ago.”

“What happened two days ago?”

Hawke chose to push the issue of Leliana aside for now. She was yet another high-ranking Inquisition member with dubious allegiances. 

“I received news from a Fereldan serving the Orlesian Wardens. He was on the run from them, barely managed to pass a few words to a fisherman. The news is, however, extremely worrisome, though maybe not unexpected. Some blood magic ritual is being planned, and the Orlesian Wardens have with them two dozen mages from the rebellion.”

“What about the mages I saw here? And the ones at Weisshaupt? Amell said she pressed for those who had willingly gone there to be given some times and a choice.”

“Two have joined our ranks here,” Nathaniel said with a nod. “Three didn’t survive. But there has been no pressure, they wanted it. We are keeping the same policy as Weisshaupt on the matter, and I don’t think the First Warden is going to insist on a change, especially not now with the Inquisition. I don’t know how that went in Orlais, it’s much bigger and the conflict erupted there first. Anyway,” Nathaniel sighed, “I wanted to bring the Warden here safely, but his identity is a problem. He’s Loghain Mac Tir.”

Hawke felt his jaw stiffen reflexively. Carver had fled Ostagar and the whole family had fled Lothering - all, it had seemed at the time, the fault of Loghain Mac Tir.

* * *

“That’s wonderful, Hawke,” Isabela rolled her eyes. “You’ve managed to get stuck running errands for the Wardens. When you add the Inquisition, you’ll have a full set!”

Despite her sarcasm Isabela hadn’t said her goodbyes in Amaranthine, and they were breaking the waves toward Jader.

“Howe is taking good care of his place and was friends with Anders and Justice. The Inquisition will probably manage to send some people to get Loghain to safety.”

* * *

_24 Firstfall, 9:41_

He was seething, eyes closed, leaning on the table for support. Maybe not a trap, but this wasn’t much better. The Inquisition didn’t even know where Corypheus was. Isabela was frowning and shuffling with one hand a deck of cards against the table. When Ennis looked at her, she pointed at the door with the other. He sat down instead.

“I didn’t think you were much for religion, Varric, so why are you still with this whole Andraste bunch?”

“Look, I know what it looks like from the outside, but I wouldn’t have called you if that were true. You saw the mages here, the Inquisitor has it under control. You could work well together.”

“Right,” Hawke folded his arms. “With Knight-Captain Cullen in toe.”

“Curly? They just keep him around to look pretty. When he’s not drilling troops, you’ll find him cleaning his armor with a lost-puppy look on his face. Sure there are a few templars in the Inquisition, but even those are getting sent around with Leliana’s small troops instead of getting involved with the mages. And I do mean a few, Trevelyan sure did take out the bulk.”

“I heard the story about that, actually,” Hawke grinned for the first time. “Dropped half a mountain on them.”

“Had it fall on him as well. You don’t know the half of it. He survived the Conclave, walked out of the Fade, traveled in time.” Varric shrugged. “His life is absurd, or as it’s more commonly known, a miracle.”

“You think he’s holy?” Hawke shook his head with amusement. “And that he actually has a chance with the mages?”

“I don’t have a nug in this race.” Ennis bit into his lip. He’d only known one other person more determined than Varric not to take sides. ”Anyway, he has a good shot at fixing Blondie’s mess.”

Only the tinge of guilt about Varric’s hometown made him swallow the reply that was on his tongue.

“I will meet him then,” he finally said, instead, “though I’m not promising anything.”

“Whatever happens, it’ll make for a great story,” smiled Varric.

“And if it doesn’t, you’ll just make up something better.”

* * *

The Inquisitor looked at Isabela’s hat mesmerized. Varric had introduced Hawke as the Champion of Kirkwall, and Trevelyan had smiled, and cast a guarded look at Varric. A Circle mage through and through, and Hawke had learned a long time ago how to read their subdued communication. 

“You are the pirate!” Trevelyan exclaimed in so much delight that Ennis wondered whether he wanted only Varric gone.

“And you are a Trevelyan,” Isabela sauntered toward him. “Your father had two of my men hanged.”

“Well, you’re a pirate…” the Inquisitor seemed very conflicted all of the sudden. “But you have a ship? Why don’t you stay with the Inquisition? We could use a proper ship of our own.”

Isabela laughed and stepped right in front of Trevelyan, her left arm sneaking around his waist and drawing him closer. Varric tensed and for a moment Hawke himself thought that arrows or magic were being trained at Isabela from afar, but nothing happened.

“You mages are so easy to impress,” she fiddled with a lock of her hair. “Then again the admirals of the Felicisima Armada are disappointed the Inquisition is so inland. Such a thrill to get an invitation. I’ll go consider it in a tavern, but at the very least we can go hat shopping together. I know the best shops.”

Her arm came free and Isabela walked back to Hawke, taking off her hat in the process. She placed it on his head and leaned in to whisper, “Yell if we have to run.”

She turned to walk down the stairs of the battlements and Varric followed her unprompted, throwing one last look at the two mages. 

* * *

“I had a great many things to ask,” Trevelyan stepped next to him and looked over the courtyard, “but I was recently made aware that not much of what I knew was actually true. Still, welcome to Skyhold. It’s good to have you here.”

Ennis nodded and looked over the stone parapet. Skyhold was a strange place. He had grown used to feeling the Fade close at all times and there was simultaneously both more and less of it here. Being at sea felt somewhat similar, with the Veil thicker, and the spirits both fewer and calmer, but Skyhold was different still. He just couldn’t pinpoint how it was different. That, and he felt being watched all the time, and that, too, was a feeling different from the usual way he felt being watched.

“You don’t really need my advice. Varric can tell you all I know of Corypheus, if he hasn’t already.” He looked down again, at a few children buying spun sugar from a stand tucked next to an overgrown wall. An older mage was accompanying them, so they were likely mages as well. He sighed. “I would say that I regret falling for Varric’s letter and coming here, but it’s not true. It’s good to see this, although I wish I weren’t alone here. But then again, I wouldn’t want to make your life more difficult.”

“Are you speaking of Anders? I heard you were… close.”

“Yes. And ‘close’ is way underselling it.” Hawke chuckled. “I wouldn’t have come here if Corypheus wasn’t a threat to him personally. I’ve seen Corypheus affect his mind before. If he was involved, I couldn’t risk it happening again. I can’t even be sure I’d have ever gotten involved in the lives of Circle mages if it weren’t for him. I had grown up running and hiding, and for a long while that seemed the right thing to do. Doesn’t sound particularly heroic, but there you have it.”

Trevelyan pulled himself up to sit on the parapet, then turned sideways, facing the courtyard and the castle.

“I am only here by chance. I don’t know whether I would still be if I could pick between that and my friends. There was a choice I could have made, but that was a year ago. It was actually by quite a narrow margin.” Trevelyan smiled wistfully, still facing away from Hawke. “Now there is just this, and maybe something can come out of it.”

* * *

Talking to Trevelyan was easy. He’d left Hawke talk for a while - about Kirkwall, the rebellion, Rivain. As far as his title of Inquisitor went, he was plenty inquisitive, just in a more curious, rather than demanding, manner.

“Did you really duel the Arishok then?”

Sometimes Hawke would say he’d actually done so, especially when children were asking. They would get a good story out of it, and he would get a faded memory of Bethany as a child, looking up at him wide-eyed as he told her some ridiculous tale. Varric had written that story a bit too well, or it had partly written itself there and then.

“What if I had lost? He would have taken Isabela with nobody stepping forth to stop him. We just attacked. It was a real mess.”

“But you alone were made Champion of Kirkwall,” Trevelyan noted.

“Hmm, let’s see. Apart from myself, there were a pantless pirate, an increasingly infamous Darktown healer, a Dalish mage and a glowing elf from Tevinter. They went for the rich human noble, I wonder why.”

“Still, to make it… you must have worked well together. I miss having upward of three mages in a battle, including a spirit healer. It was a surprise to realize that wounds hurt more after a battle.”

“I miss them too,” Hawke nodded. “Merrill, even Fenris. Seeing Isabela again brought back the few good memories I had of Kirkwall.” He snorted. “Of which battling the Arishok wasn’t one. Things only went downhill from there.”

“Even though you were an openly free apostate?”

“And Meredith took over the city completely. I got a warrior statue in my name, one with a glowing sword no doubt enchanted by the Tranquil the Circle kept churning out. Their show-off mage while everything plunged into the gutter. I am surprised you have me free here,” he pushed himself away from the stone railing, ”considering how it all ended… or started, in Kirkwall.”

“Because people died?” Trevelyan raised an eyebrow, looking more annoyed than anything. “A lot of people would have died anyway, they were just the ones whose deaths mattered. You weren’t here for the Conclave’s aftermath, all people cared for was the Divine and her clerics. Sure, now a lot of them want Corypheus dead, me included, but in the name of that we are going to go save an empress who killed thousands of elves to dismiss a rumor.”

“Anders wanted to show the world just how worthless to the Chantry mages’ lives were. He hoped he could change things, and knew it couldn’t peacefully.” Hawke swallowed. “Well, the world saw, called Meredith mad, wrote it all off and gave templars even more power over us. I think that was when I really understood what he had meant. Nobody likes being that right. If it weren’t for…”

Hawke stopped himself before he let Justice’s name slip out. There was no need to risk that subject if nobody had brought it up yet.

“Anyway, I think he would like you.” _Or at least Justice would._ “If nothing else, for the impressive templar body count alone.”

* * *

“Knight-Captain, what a joy it is to meet you here!” Hawke smirked at the sight of Cullen, who probably wanted to be anywhere but here.

“It’s Commander,” Cullen said in a surprisingly steady voice given his paleness.

“Knight-Commander, then,” Hawke dug deeper not without satisfaction.

“Just Commander. I left the Order, I want nothing to do with that life anymore.” Cullen sighed as if he carried the world on his shoulders.

“Ah, the wonders of choice and absolution. And all you had to give up for it was dominance over mages by divine right.” The Seeker who had kidnapped Varric took three quick, large steps around the table. “Sorry, didn’t mean to ignore the rest of you. Did you seek out anything suspicious in Kirkwall, Seeker? You were responsible for watching the templars, were you not? I don’t suppose the abuses in the Circle would have garnered particular interest, but at least templars seizing the ruler’s place should have registered somewhere.”

“Hawke!” Leliana’s voice came gentle and insistent, and perhaps that was the worst. 

“Sister Nightingale, do we have you to thank for the lack of any recent Exalted Marches with all the ‘mage troubles’? Thank you so much for _tolerating_ us.”

Leliana’s look turned pained at the same moment as Trevelyan’s turned confused, having been until then suitably pleased. Leliana’s visit to Kirkwall had been such a tiny blip in the already deranged landscape, he hadn’t really thought of mentioning it. In hindsight it would have been probably wiser to have kept his mouth shut completely. There was no particular reason to make most of the Inquisition’s leadership upset with him. He turned towards the remaining one, glad that he had never heard anything whatsoever about Josephine Montilyet. 

Trevelyan introduced her and then they set to work, the best half of which was concentrated on the mages, the ones in Rivain included. Lady Montilyet had already started on preparing her cards for a game with the nobles in Rivain, Antiva was her home, and there seemed to be enough hope for the rest of the eastern Marcher states, next to Ostwick. Tevinter agents were the bigger threat to mages and whatever budding relationship with the common folk the Inquisition hoped to achieve, and next to the neatly ordered papers containing the Ambassador’s letters, Hawke got another stack of notes from Leliana. Those were a far cry from letters, mostly covered with maps, notes, pointers and cypher, all about suspected Venatori activity in the north.

Her face had gone wistful at the mention of Loghain and she had agreed to secretly inform Queen Anora, in case he needed to be saved from more than the Wardens currently after him.

“There is something strange going on in the region,” Leliana said, pointing at the map. “The people recovering things from Kinloch Hold reported that from the top of the tower only a thick cloud of mist could be seen where Crestwood lies. I can send some scouts to start investigating.”

“I will go as well then,” Hawke decided, surprising even himself. “It’s on my way east. I need to know what this blood ritual is that the Wardens are planning and…” he frowned, “if it is one to get to Corypheus, then they might need a mage who isn’t a Warden. Better someone offers before they find one to blackmail.”

* * *

The sun had already been setting when they had made their way to the war room, and now that Hawke was out of it, the last traces of daylight were long gone. The courtyard was still alive with people, perhaps even more than before. Some were still scurrying around, finishing whatever jobs they were doing, but most had gathered into laughing and chattering groups, waiting for the moment when the smell of cooking food would turn into more than just a smell. Most of the fires and torches were regular flames, but every now and then Hawke passed a group in the middle of which a mage fire was floating, and once even a wisp.

He asked a mage where the main entrance to their quarters was and turned to walk in the direction, slowing his steps. The increasingly strange feeling he had thought had come from the Inquisitor’s mark hadn’t diminished in strength now that Trevelyan had stayed behind in the war room. It might have even grown stronger, as had the prickling sensation of being watched. Ennis had mastered the art of scanning the edges of his peripheral vision and of making use of the slightest movement of his head to widen the field he could take in, but this time both proved futile. He finally gave up and spun, eyes trailing from the highest windows of the castle to the ground that had been until recently behind him. Nobody stood out. He sighed and turned around in resignation.

A boy stood no more than a step away from him, shorter by half a head and therefore hidden from the shoulders up by the wide brim of a hat. “A possessed mage” was Hawke’s first thought, because now he could tell what the strange feeling was, even if it wasn’t quite the same as when standing close to Justice. The boy raised his head and the brim of the hat revealed a pale face, gaunt like the rest of the body under the peculiar patchwork of his clothes.

“You shouldn’t want for your friend to be a demon. That would go very bad. You would make it very bad.”

Ennis could feel himself gaping at this peculiar presence, his mouth going dry within two seconds. Not all spirits could read the minds of mortals outside of the Fade, and not all of them even cared to. This one apparently could, and did.

“Who are you?”

People had started watching him now, a few passing him by with a frown or a shrug, looking only at him, their eyes passing over the boy without acknowledging him.

“I am Cole. That is my name.”

Hawke wet his lips and swallowed around the dryness in his throat. It couldn’t be, surely more than one person carried the name, and yet… people couldn’t see him.

“You are Cole, the ghost of the White Spire?”

“I thought I was, before,” Cole nodded, fiddling with a leather strap on his clothes. “You weren’t at the White Spire.”

“No, I wasn’t. A mage called Adrian told me of you.” Few of the mages in Rivain had gone to the Conclave, but Adrian had. She hadn’t wanted whatever Loyalists there still were to make a deal on everyone’s behalf.

“Adrian wanted blood, she wanted to force the fight,” Cole frowned. “I don’t like her.”

“Then you wouldn’t like me either,” Hawke shrugged. “What sort of spirit are you, Naïveté? Are you hiding among the mages?”

“No,” Cole hesitated. “I help. I only hide when they are scared of me, like the servants are. A lot of the mages are, too, because they would want me different. But I remember now, they can’t change me.” The boy’s face shone with satisfaction. “But he would let you change him. I don’t understand why, he is already changed.”

“Vengeance can be satisfied,” Hawke said and just then a man carrying half a dozen rolls of fabric crashed into Cole, and three of the rolls fell onto the ground, one rolling into a puddle two steps away.

Cole slipped around after a second of stagger.

“I’m sorry! I can help!”

The man suddenly saw him, or so Hawke surmised, because he dropped the remaining piles, wheezing a surprised “Maker!”. Cole froze still, stepped away and looked around, then at Hawke, frantically.

“I’m sorry! I have to go get some daggers!” And he dashed for the other end of the courtyard, the man with the fabrics huffing something about the damn courtyard still not being cleaned up of all the rocks.

Ennis helped him pick up the rolls, then looked around for Cole, in vain. Isabela hadn’t been waiting for him anywhere obvious, and might still be spending time with Varric, so he shrugged and walked further towards the half of the castle the mages occupied.


	26. Chapter 26

_24 Firstfall, 9:41_

“Everyone is looking at you, Rivaini.”

“Just imagine what it would’ve been like if I weren’t overdressed.” Isabela popped a button on her jacket and loosened the cravat. “I didn’t expect it to be so… not winter in the south here.”

“If I buttoned up, everybody would be at my throat for everything else.” Varric pushed the tavern door open, then nearly closed it again before Isabela could as much as peek in. “I suppose if you’re going to join the Inquisition, we might as well get it over with. Don’t try to stab the Qunari.”

Trying to sneak Isabela past the Iron Bull wouldn’t work either way, so Varric took her straight to the table where the Qunari was drinking his ale. Varric wasn’t sure whether he was actually drinking, or pretending to be while listening to everyone around him. Isabela swaggered confidently next to him, but that didn’t mean much. She had swaggered toward the Arishok to hand him his tome, too.

“You know, Varric,” Bull raised the eyebrow over his seeing eye, “when I said I was supposed to ask you about Isabela, I didn’t think you’d be introducing us.”

“Hey, what happened to ‘never speak of this again’?” Isabela exclaimed as she raised a hand at Cabot. “I heard you lost your book again. Nothing to do with me. Perhaps you should do something about your locks. Unless it’s a demand of the Qun not to.”

“You might be onto something there,” the Iron Bull shrugged. “It’s so important, nobody should be thinking of stealing it.”

“That’s just stupid,” Isabela took the ale Cabot personally brought to her. Varric had never seen Cabot move from behind the bar.

“I know! It’s downright Qunari.” Bull turned to the table and kicked a stool from under it. “Have a seat.”

Isabela plopped down and crossed one leg over the other, while Varric pulled a chair for himself with resignation.

“Everybody is spurning my introductions today.” One would think ‘Champion’ was a dirty word judging by how Hawke had scoffed at it. “Rivaini, this is Bull, a Ben-Hassrath spy, if he’s to be believed. Tiny, Isabela, admiral and Queen of the Eastern Seas, if she’s to be believed.”

“Still doing the nicknames, Varric?” Isabela’s lips curved. “What have you named Trevelyan? It’s true, by the way,” she nodded at Bull, “I just loaned my hat to a friend for the day.”

“Nothing would possibly stick after Herald and Inquisitor.”

“Hmm, I would go with Captain,” Isabela purred. “He would like that. I can tell a man who appreciates a big boat.”

“Or northerners, or pirates, or people who piss off the Qunari,” Bull noted. “But you’re not wrong, he has a thing for boats. How about Stormy? ‘Captain’ would put you above him.”

“He might like that, too. Will he dock well in stormy weather, I wonder.” Isabela smirked. For just a moment it felt like they were back at the Hanged Man, innuendo seeping from her at a flustered Hawke. Then Bull laughed loudly.

“Nah, he’d wrap you up in something fluffy and keep you safe. Hum you a shanty, too, if he really likes you.”

“No!” Isabela exclaimed with dramatic incredulity. “A man with so much influence can’t be that innocent. Well, hello there, gorgeous.”

Sera dropped from the railing of the upper floor and Isabela’s eyes followed her all the way down. The elf grinned at her, almost bashfully, if there was such a thing with Sera, but turned to Varric first.

“Varric, you better watch it. Cassandra ran out of dummies to beat up.”

“Is she still muttering ‘persecution’ with every hit?” Bull inquired.

“No, just ‘That! Dwarf! I swear!’ Scared Scout Harding, too. Ruined my moment,” Sera whined, dragged a chair closer with the tip of her foot, and straddled it. She then proceeded to eat up Isabela with her eyes. “Ray is not innocent, you know, he’s weird.” She leaned forward and in a stage whisper said, “he’s done it with a demon.”

Isabela roared with laughter and Bull uttered a loud curse, but his mouth was stretched in a grin, too. Varric felt his blood run just a little bit colder.

“Knew it!” Bull raised his tankard to toast Sera, then put the ale in front of her. “Can’t imagine why all these mages would drag themselves through the Fade night after night otherwise.”

“You know, Buttercup,” Varric forced himself to smile, “I didn’t think you one to sabotage our Herald with such blunt perfidy.”

“What?” Sera blinked at him for a second, hard at deciphering, before her gaze returned to Isabela. “Oh! Yeah, he might like you, he digs the fancy northern clothes. But I saw you first,” she grinned triumphantly.

“Not quite, sweetness, he already offered me a job.” Isabela stretched, her eyes glinting as Sera’s face fell. “A mage who can pay, what a sudden twist. Almost like a second chance, isn’t it, Varric?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask Ruffles if she couldn’t get Hawke’s assets unfrozen. That and a pardon from the Inquisitor shouldn’t be hard to acquire.” He was pretty sure by now Hawke wouldn’t make use of either. The only letter that had gotten a reaction out of him had been the one about Corypheus, and whatever doubts Varric had been harboring about the motivation had pretty much evaporated once Hawke had arrived.

Isabela was frowning too, her face telling him that this was a lost cause. Sera was looking dejectedly at the table, confounded by not having much of a clue what the other two were cross about. Bull chuckled and the three looked at him.

“Pretty sure it’s Blackwall who appreciates the northern ruffles. We’ve got to face it, the only moves the Inquisitor is making are the ones to hold us in check.”

“Well, that’s arse!” Sera slammed Bull’s tankard on the table hard enough for some ale to spill over. “I’m not playing some stupid game!”

“Are you people trying to get your Herald of Andraste married?” Isabela giggled. “Bride of the Herald of the Bride of the Maker? That sounds like something a foursome should be called.”

“Even Hawke had started getting the odd proposal here and there, people are getting over the mage thing even faster for the Inquisitor.” Varric vaguely remembered Leandra’s mix of acceptance and exasperation at her son’s living arrangements.

He’d often wondered if things would have gone differently had Hawke and Anders gotten together sooner and in happier times. Anders had been the one always sidestepping despite occasionally managing to utter something so lovestruck that Hawke would renew his efforts with doubled resolve. Still, that had been the right thing to do, Varric had thought. Anders knew he was dangerous. Then the Ser Alric fiasco had come, Justice had lashed out, and only Hawke being there had saved Ella’s life. Whatever Hawke had said to the healer after that had finally made him give in. There had been a brief period of happiness and optimism surrounding them, spreading to the rest of the group even. It had ended with Leandra’s death. If and when Hawke had finally managed to recover from it, he’d started hurting for Anders instead, who was suffocating under Meredith’s rule. Varric had watched them at the camp fire, leaning against each other, or asleep, fingers and legs intertwined. Perfectly unhappy in their own world. Something had to give, that couldn’t last, he had thought.

But the end had been Sebastian raving and threatening amidst the smoke and rubble, under the overcast sky still orange from the city’s flames.

“I’m sure he has a special fire spell for those letters,” Bull started to raise himself, likely for another ale, when he grinned and nodded at the window. “A pair of enthralled ducklings.”

Varric looked up and saw Hawke and Trevelyan crossing the courtyard toward the stairs to the main hall. At least that had gone as expected. He’d had little doubt that Trevelyan would welcome Hawke. Still, given his recent experience with explosions, it was a relief to see them walking and gesturing side by side, looking all friendly. Then he noticed the first enthralled duckling of Bull’s and groaned. Cassandra was following the mages at twenty paces, all possible trace of anger gone from her face. Giddy schoolgirl was more like her current look. If Hawke could manage not to reinstate the anger, and then some… well, that was an empty hope if there was one.

The second duckling was of a more heartwarming nature, as Cole would take a few steps following the rest, then halt for two or three seconds before moving again.

“Huh, so that’s the Champion?” Sera turned back from the window. “I thought he was fat.”

“Tell that to Varric,” Bull grumbled. “He can’t describe musculature right.”

“I was joking, Tiny. Sorry for hurting your feelings in the name of page-turning literature.” Varric sighed. “Hawke’s thinner than he used to be though.”

“He’s always been wiry,” Isabela shrugged. “I swear, Varric, he has had enough to eat. In the last three months or so.”

“He’s pretty striking, I must say. Redheads, what can you do?” Bull looked at the two mages disappearing into the castle. “Can’t figure out how we got at least two reports confirming him and the other apostate dead.”

“Qunari were after them for…?” Varric started and Bull cut in.

“The formula, yes. Figured they’d gone to Tevinter, it’s not like plenty there hadn’t tried to get hold of them.” Bull stood up. “Well, things were quiet, and now Corypheus has raised the ante.”

“Right,” Isabela looked at the ceiling pensively, “that hat shop is gone.”

Varric sank deeper into his memories as Sera made good on her promise not to wait and launched a flirting offensive at Isabela. The latter was a few magnitudes better at that than Sera’s clumsy and crude lines, but was playing along, dangling just enough bait for it to continue. They were probably going to end up in Sera’s room, sooner rather than later.

“See, that’s why I like your ways better,” Bull nudged him, putting a tankard in front of him. “Fewer rituals, more making it up as you go along.”

“Tiny, you have yet to watch the ritual version. It can go on for years.”

“Oh, right,” Bull drank and chuckled with a gurgle, “Trevelyan’s crab dance. Can’t wait to see him at the Orlesian ball.”

* * *

The main hall was emptier than usual. There were about the same number of visiting dignitaries as on any other day for the past two weeks, but of the leaders of the Inquisition only Josephine was there. Her workday didn’t end at dinner time. None of her collection of polyglot and manners mages were present though, and neither were any others, save for two. Madame de Fer was strolling unchallenged from one group to another, and Dorian was drinking and laughing at something Isabela was saying. Sera had snuggled at her side, looking not entirely sober herself.

When Varric got closer he got the end of what was probably the last in a line of jokes about the Qunari. Dorian gave him a look so pointed, he simply sat at the table and prepared himself for a tirade.

“Your Champion is quite the ray of sunshine, Varric.”

“What happened at the war council?” Varric swallowed. A look at Isabela simply got him a shake of her head and a slight shrug. She still didn’t have her hat.

“Nothing good, I imagine. Hawke walked out, looking extremely glad to be leaving. Then Cullen and Cassandra did too, the former all jittery, the latter as depressed as a storm cloud can get.” Dorian waved a hand towards the door to the rotunda. “Leliana emerged and slid into her lair like a ghost, then Josephine appeared, and well, look at her fret!”

The last person who was missing, both from Dorian’s recount of the events, and from the hall, was the Inquisitor.

“Ray never showed up,” Dorian mercifully added. “Must have taken one of the basement corridors, and taken the rest of the southern mages with him. Not Vivienne though. That would have been like inviting Cassandra to a match-making party.”

“Should have seen it coming,” Varric sighed.

An eyebrow of Isabela’s jumped so high, it caused all sorts of wrinkles.

“That and more.” The flippancy was mostly gone when the eyebrow came down. “Here is an idea, Varric - let go. Hawke chose, let him have his life.”

“Did he really choose, Rivaini? A life on the run, losing everything he had worked for?” Did a moth choose the flames?

_I gotta hand it to you, Blondie, you make that work every time._

“Shocking, I know.” Isabela clipped. “But he actually feels fine outside of city walls. Now if only they could have stayed out of the Deep Roads.”

Anders had hated the Deep Roads and everything to do with darkspawn and Wardens. Yet he wouldn’t let Hawke enter them without him, not ever after that first expedition. It had been a difficult battle, with Varric and Fenris taking down shades without any assistance from the mages. Hawke had been trying to hold onto Anders, pleading with both him and Justice, while the healer railed and haphazardly threw stray spells at his lover and around them. When it had been over and Corypheus’ voice had seemed to have gone quiet, Anders had tended to Hawke’s injuries with hands shaking and an expression a step away from bursting into tears and running. Varric had thought it a miracle that Fenris hadn’t followed Sebastian’s suggestion to turn in Anders to the templars.

It hadn’t mattered in the end. Anders had gone behind their backs and carried out his plan, and Hawke had thrown everything to the wind to follow him. They had saved plenty of mages over the years, much to Fenris’ dismay, but Varric had truly missed the moment when this had become Hawke’s own fight, if there ever had been one. Anders had never involved him in the Mage Underground business. As far as Varric had known that had been one door that had remained closed to Hawke. Maybe it had only happened that day in the Gallows, with the Annulment called for. Or maybe it had been just for Anders’ sake all along. Varric had never expected Hawke to kill his lover. Maker no, especially not after Carver. But he’d also never expected for him to simply forgive and run away with him. It had felt like one of those tragic moments in Hawke’s life when he was about to lose someone yet again. Those seemed to roll around like clockwork. But this time Hawke had refused to.

* * *

It was well past midnight when Cassandra finally got a hold of him, quite literally. Varric found himself being dragged up the stairs to the upper floor of the smithy, now completely deserted, and then, as if the second floor was too good for him, pushed against the railing, his feet dangling above the ground.

“You knew where Hawke was all along!”

Cassandra gave him one last shove then let him drop to his feet as she prepared for a punch.

“You’re damned right I did!” The punch came and swiped the air above his head.

“You conniving little shit!”

Varric could keep up the game of cat and mouse, jumping around chairs and sneaking under tables for a while, but he was getting worried Cassandra would eventually resort to her sword. Or to furniture, as a table wasn’t as much flipped as reeled over, and only missed him by a hair’s width.

“You kidnapped me! You interrogated me! What did you expect?”

He dodged again and found himself back at the railing, already a bit breathless. Maybe he should just fling himself and take his chances with the ground below being kinder to his bones than the Seeker. Cassandra’s breath was hitching as well, but she had anger to make up for any of it.

The sound of steps on the stairs made both of them freeze, and for a second Varric thought they were Hawke’s. Then Trevelyan’s head appeared, followed by the rest of him, and it was only when he had fully ascended the stairs that he seemed to take in the upturned furniture. Varric ran around a table in the way to get closer, and Cassandra, looking about to explode again, took a step forth in the same direction.

“Leave me out of this.”

The words stopped both of them in their tracks and Varric didn’t even have time for a sigh when Cassandra, luckily without throwing any more of the furniture, shouted.

“I expected you to tell the truth! I _told_ you what was at stake!”

“So I’d just hand him over on your say so? ‘It’s okay, Hawke! This zealot isn’t crazy, I promise!’” Varric threw his hands up and looked at Trevelyan again, but he just kept staring ahead.

“Hawke was our only hope. He was the Champion of Kirkwall. The mages respected him. And you kept him from us.”

“I was protecting my friend!” They had gotten back to shouting when Trevelyan finally spoke up.

“All right! You’ve both made your point.” He spared Varric a glance, then turned to Cassandra. “Hawke wouldn’t have willingly come to play Inquisition with the lot of you.”

“Exactly!” Varric spread his hands, but it seemed whatever was going on right now, was between Trevelyan and Cassandra.

“So I must accept… what?” Cassandra’s voice wavered. “That the Maker wanted all this to happen? That He, that He…”

“If I’d accepted anything I’ve been told the Maker wanted, I’d have thrown myself from my window years ago.”

Cassandra looked as if she’d been slapped, and Varric felt a brief moment of relief that as hard as the smithy’s wooden floor was, the few feet they were standing above it were nothing like a Circle tower. The moment was brief, as the Seeker shook off her distress by turning to him.

“Varric is a liar, Inquisitor. A snake.” The words were spat rather than spoken. “We all know whose side you’re on, Varric. It will never be the Inquisition’s.”

“Oh, like I have no reasons to help the Inquisition finish this?” 

It wasn’t as if there had been time to write to Hawke between the Kirkwall interrogation and the Conclave, to have the letter arrive in time for him to come. Still even as things were now, after everything the day had brought, Varric was starting to regret calling on him at all.

The silence stretched for what seemed like ages, until Cassandra turned her back on him and walked to the other end of the room.

“Go, Varric. Just… go.”

Trevelyan nodded without looking at him, and Varric decided to leave the two to whatever storm they had coming between themselves, but not without turning one last time as he descended the stairs.

“If Hawke had been at the temple, he’d be dead, too. You people have done enough to him.”

Three bloody years of condemnation and chases, but when their precious Chantry had fallen to pieces they’d seek just about anyone to help them put it together.

* * *

He waited until the smithy had gone dark, and he still missed the moment Trevelyan must have walked out of it. Maybe Cole was helping him move around forgotten, since Cole himself had been nowhere to be seen. The Inquisitor’s quarters had remained dark as well, and even though some of the mages had returned to the main building, Hawke hadn’t been among them.

Varric gave up on waiting around and walked up the stairs to the battlements instead to his room. It was probably going to rain again tonight, but there were as usual half a dozen mages within sight roaming around or talking. Cullen had tried to joke once that they wouldn’t need soldiers patrolling at night, but it hadn’t turned out to be much of a joke. There weren’t many of them in that part of the fortress.

A mage passed him and grinned. It might have been someone he vaguely remembered signing a book for, likely one of the tomes now missing from the main library. Without asking, she pointed him to Trevelyan being somewhere further east, then hurried down the stairs as Varric made his way along the battlements. He realized he’d never been on this particular stretch of the stone way, close to the tower that had been the first to get fixed by the mages. It had to be housing the studying rooms now, as this was where youngsters would spill out from, onto the ramparts to run around and be loud and flashy. Varric had just never thought it would look much different than the rest of the battlements.

Glowing rune stones were evenly spaced on both sides of the walkway every few yards, each giving out just enough dim light to illuminate the path until the next pair. Sufficient room had been left around each of the stones, as to not obscure its light, but in between were crammed potted plants, crates with empty flasks, a few of Leliana’s raven cages, makeshift tables and chairs with abandoned bottles and glasses, the odd boot here and there… Some illegible scrawls on the inner side of the stone parapet hadn’t been completely washed off by the rain that had fallen the night before, and then there were a few legible ones still standing. Some were in the common tongue, like a stanza of an attempt at love poetry, or a particularly blasphemous line on the subject of entropy meeting the Chantry.

Overall the battlements around the mage tower shared the mixed feel of a quaint promenade and a side street that the town guards would avoid, especially with the odd glyph lovingly carved into the stone here and there. Totally desecrated, and yet strangely alluring. The mages, it seemed, didn’t care particularly for the possibility of the enemy’s dragon flying by and torching their little avenue. With Skyhold being fairly full, however, it made for a nice piece of real estate. Varric wondered who the first merchant would be to seek the patronage of this exclusive clientele.

Of that prospective clientele only a few were around at this rather late hour, and they mostly limited themselves to nodding at Varric and continuing their conversation. Trevelyan wasn’t among them, so he walked past the last of the glowing stones, first into relative darkness again, then to a clearing that was illuminated by a perfectly mundane torch. Trevelyan was there, sitting cross-legged on the parapet, turning a page of his book with one hand and holding an ornate pipe, Orlesian or Nevarran, in the other. 

Upon noticing Varric, he slowly dropped the book closed and exhaled a thick cloud of white smoke. The sweet and heavy smell hit Varric’s nose as he approached and he looked at the pipe quizzically. It wasn’t kohl as was the Orlesian fashion, nor was it whatever the Merchants Guild favored that smelled of dwarvishness.

“It’s just some elfroot. Well, mostly,” the Inquisitor supplied, “much needed after today,” then took another drag from the pipe. “Cassandra’s calmed down.”

“Define ‘calmed down’ for me in terms of who or what she’s punching right now.” He’d actually come to inquire about Hawke, as at this point he didn’t think he’d get to talk to him once more. He’d figured Cassandra would seek him out again.

A corner of Trevelyan’s mouth lifted, but other than that he looked not the slightest bit amused.

“Is there anything _else_ you’ve been hiding that I should know?”

“You want to hear about my childhood? Maybe what I had for breakfast? I told you what I knew when it became important.”

“You lied to me,” Trevelyan shook the pipe empty over the wall, “back in Haven.”

“You’d have to be more specific. I lie about a great deal of things.”

“About Anders.”

Varric hadn’t been tremendously forthcoming about elaborating on his _Tale of the Champion_ when Trevelyan had asked. That had probably been one of the factors for never getting much of the mage’s interest.

“Let’s just say I told a story as a dwarf would tell it. The way I want things to be. If I could, I would have written him out of it. Some people don’t deserve to be remembered.” Truthfully, he hadn’t even known what Hawke had been up to, nor whether Anders was still there, be it in body or mind. Isabela had left a channel for contact, but Hawke had always been on the move and the only reply he’d ever sent to Varric’s letters had been to confirm that he was alive. By the time the one from Rivain had arrived, the date of the Conclave had been set and Varric had thought the next one would come from the Frostbacks.

“Well, he’s been with Hawke, helping the Circles rise up.”

“That might mean a lot to you, but from where I stand Anders roped Hawke into this mess and dragged him through it to its bloody culmination.”

“Hawke is a mage and a lifelong apostate at that, why would you think he was against it?”

“Because Hawke wasn’t this ‘all that matters is the goal and fuck the consequences’ kind of person. He cared, he was the Champion of Kirkwall, and he could have resolved this shit and returned things to order.”

“Order!” Trevelyan sneered. “The word you use to describe back when things were going well for you. Maybe you’d see it differently if order had you locked up in Orzammar.”

“Now that’s just cruel,” Varric sighed. “And believe me, things were never going that well in Kirkwall one way or the other. I would know, I was there.”

“No, you weren’t!” Trevelyan jumped down from the stone ridge, and if the look on his face was any indication, the elfroot hadn’t done much to calm him. “You were in your Hanged Man den or wherever else you pleased to be! _We_ could never leave. _We_ had to grow up accepting that it was normal for a friend to be killed because they were too good or not good enough. The conflict has been there for centuries, you just didn’t have to witness any of it.” Trevelyan’s voice had been steadily rising. It was nowhere close to shouting, but Varric had never heard a mage shout. The scale was different, and it had been so even with Hawke and Merrill, who had never known a Circle’s discipline. Then the voice broke and fell almost to a whisper. “Hawke was your friend and you… wrote that drivel about him.”

“He _is_ my friend,” Varric snapped. “Look, I like how you’re running things around here. People are getting along, let’s hope it keeps. But what got the ball rolling in Kirkwall… well, you weren’t there to see what it looked like. I mean, you did see Haven.”

“I saw Haven all right. Hundred and forty-seven dead.” Trevelyan offered the piece of statistics in his usual voice and Varric spread his arms. There you go. “That is eleven more than the mages at the Ostwick Circle the day we took over. If we hadn’t won, Annulment would have been sure for those who’d survived, and few outside of the Circle would have cared. Now I have to care about everyone.”

It hadn’t been much of a feat to figure out that Trevelyan’s general interest in people all over the place not suffering was largely an academic principle. Varric had found it hard to begrudge him for it, the man had barely known life outside the Circle. A yearly trip to a nobles’ estate didn’t qualify as much. It was obvious he took enough pleasure in the trust people placed in him, and that was promising enough, or so Varric had reasoned to put those worries to rest.

“I won’t make the same mistake as Hawke.” Trevelyan kept the same vaguely informative tone, which most closely resembled Josephine’s when she would report on something that was already a done deal. The question of _”which one”_ was the first to come to Varric, but he didn’t have to wait long for the answer to that. “I am not going to stand there and appease people just to prove myself harmless.”

Harmless. Kirkwall had never viewed Hawke as harmless, nor would anyone who’d known him. The city just unconditionally assumed he was on their side, until he wasn’t.

“Inquisitor,” Varric started in his most reasonable voice, “you’ve witnessed some of the chaos by now. Don’t you want for this war to be over?”

“Yes,” Trevelyan ground out, “by winning it. Sadly, it’s always the same people in power, even if the name is different.”

“The mage rebellion is looking vastly different from just a few weeks ago,” Varric reminded him. He had approved of how it had gone, not that anyone had inquired about his opinion. It had seemed like something Hawke would have done.

“By virtue of one side being mostly dead or busy guzzling down red lyrium. The side that’s not hard to replenish.” Trevelyan shook his head and took off the glove that hid the Anchor. The mark flared for a split second before dimming again. “Remember when we went to Val Royeaux with Mother Giselle’s list of clerics? If the templars had wanted back in, the Chantry would have welcomed them, even after everything. Perhaps if I live and still have an army after Corypheus, I should consider speaking for Andraste after all.”

If this rant was a result of Hawke being here, then Varric was starting to second-guess his idea even more. Maybe Hawke just wasn’t the same person Varric had last known four years ago.

“Would you really want to pit innocent people against each other to fight in the name of something you don’t believe in? The world has enough problems, Inquisitor. It doesn’t need another monster. Try not to become one.” 

Maker’s breath, no wonder Vivienne was seething every time the topic of mages came up with the Inquisitor. Varric could see him whipping out a battle map in some cellar with Blondie. Being possessed seemed completely optional these days. He had to hand it to Solas, the man had been good with his metaphors. The lid on the boiling pot was blown, and the anger and resentment that had been brewing inside for centuries were palpable. It wouldn’t be a difficult task to convey the irony of Trevelyan leading the Inquisition, should he write that book one day.

“As opposed to the Chantry sending innocent people against us? Kinder to fight them than have at least some on our side?”

Maybe he ought to be praying for this chaos to go on for long enough for Trevelyan to get his fill of death. Or, alternatively, for the Inquisitor to spend more time in the company of Sera than with Leliana or Josephine, who with all her pacifism still moved pieces on a chess board. One would think the Conclave would have driven the point of collateral damage home, even if Kirkwall and the rebellion hadn’t.

He must have muttered some of that aloud, because Trevelyan was giving him that dour look that was really better suited for someone of equal height. Curiously how he still managed to convey it expressively enough. Varric shrugged.

“So are you going to kick me out now? Not that I ever officially joined.”

Funny how his last act would have been to annoy Cassandra, maybe Madame de Fer would have had that one right. Although, judging by how she saw things, she might well see him as a player of the Game, now that he had meddled in the Inquisition’s business.

“Kick you out?” Trevelyan stuffed the pipe into his belt, pulled his glove back on and picked the book from the stone parapet. “You’re a dwarf, and not even a lyrium-dealing one, Varric. I don’t expect you to care.”

He finished buckling the book back to the links of his belt and made to leave, only to stop after two steps, standing to Varric’s side.

“You did care enough to protect your friends. Would you think different of the rebellion, I wonder, if Hawke had been dragged to the Gallows?”

“To be fair, a lot of the ‘rebellions’ in Kirkwall boiled down to ‘Let’s feed ourselves to the demons.’” Varric huffed. He’d had those conversations. Way. Too. Often.

“Yes, every mage’s ultimate dream. I’m sure nothing drove them to that, just as I’m sure I’d quietly sign myself over to Tranquility if it would give a few some peace of mind. Though I suppose there’s always voting, as long as we don’t appear to be voting on something disagreeable.”

Mages and templars, and innocent people caught in the middle. Some things never change. It seemed they wouldn’t change for a while even if the Inquisition took the place of the Chantry.

As he watched the Inquisitor disappear towards the illuminated path on the battlements, Varric wished he were back in Kirkwall. Not even in the Kirkwall from years ago, unmarred by red lyrium and fire. Just Kirkwall as it was now, in need of a lot of fixing and abandoned by mages and templars alike.


	27. Chapter 27

_24 Firstfall, 9:41_

The grass blades pushed between his fingers for a moment, then collapsed into soft wool. Ray huffed and looked up at Solas to find the elven mage’s eyes glinting with merriment.

“It’s the carpet from my childhood… back at my parents’ estate.” Ray buried his hand in the thick wool, the color of grass but none of the life of it. “I ought to be able to do grass, I’ve seen enough of it by now.”

Elonna had been able to do that out of the Fade.

“It’s not so bad,” Solas smiled. “You are not loud and clear enough. It is also easier to slip into something simpler to imagine. It’s a fine carpet, too. You still remember it well?”

“It is still there. Most of my room’s furniture stayed unchanged, they just brought in a bigger writing desk at some point.” Ray focused again and snorted when Solas lifted a foot off the now soaked sheepskin, confused.

“First victim of my magic, as it happens. I dreamed I was a mage the night I actually became one. Woke up after a battle with a sea monster to find my bed an arm’s length away from the wall and a good bit of the carpet soaked.”

It hadn’t taken long to figure it out, and maybe he should have been expecting it with all the tales of vivid dreams he’d been hearing from his elder brother, then two years into templar training. Water was obviously still better than fire, but then there were Dorian and the Hawke siblings, who had been expected to manifest magic and appropriately eased into it before even getting it. And Solas, of course, who had said he couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t been a mage.

“You didn’t figure out how to dry it there and then, I assume?”

A decorative fish twitched on the rug, and then another, and another. Only two of the eight had died. One of the servants had been quick to fetch a bowl of water, while the other was alternating between getting Ray dressed and wiping away his tears, trying to calm him down. At least they hadn’t had to wonder why he was crying.

“I had a fish tank. Emptied it in the bathroom almost entirely with a glass, then pushed it onto the floor.” The fish disappeared and the rug went back to its lighter color, with the water gone. “Nobody even suspected anything, they just put out the carpet to dry and I got a bigger fish tank a few days later.”

They were in a small clearing on top of one of the ridges overlooking Skyhold and the lake around it. The fortress should have been below them, but somehow it was right in front of their eyes. A veil of mist was hovering around it, spanning thinner before it coiled dense enough to obscure the view again. The silhouette changed behind the mist, resembling the arcs of Tevinter stretching much higher, above the mist and into the clouds.

“What is happening? Do spirits remember this from the days of the Imperium?”

Josephine had indulged him with a request to the Grand Library in Val Royeaux to uncover as much as possible on Skyhold, and Tevinter might have been here a long time ago, before the Chantry had existed. Along with Ferelden, Orlais, and perhaps even Rivain to follow.

“Older,” Solas muttered and stretched his hand to hold a twisted staff in it. “A memory lost in time.”

“You mean… I’m sorry, I know what history says. I just don’t know much of what was there before Tevinter.”

Stories of a demon army sinking Arlathan, Tevinter’s foundation stones the bones of ancient elves with slave-blood for the mortar.

“We hear stories of them living in trees and imagine wooden ramps or Dalish aravels. Imagine instead spires of crystal twining through the branches, palaces floating among the clouds. Imagine beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing. That is what was lost.”

“I’m sorry,” Ray swallowed, “that it was lost. It is true then, have you seen it? They were all… mages?”

Solas nodded and stared ahead until Skyhold’s ancient arcs had dissolved. His eyes shifted back to Ray.

“You need to empty your mind of everything else, like you do with Equinor. Focus on only what you want to see and it will be there. Imagine with enough clarity and precision for the spirits to see, and they will follow.”

It took Ray a moment to realize Solas had gone back to the grass exercise, then stifled a laughter. Sera had taken to making Cole think about genitals. Thought-arrows, she called it. Yelling in one’s head probably wasn’t how dreamers were capable of doing all this.

He closed his eyes and pushed aside the more recent memories of the Hinterlands. The grass around the lake west of the former ed themCircle castle was still green and supple even as further around them the sun and the oncoming fall were turning dark green into ocher. The flowers were slow to let go, too, none of them with any particular alchemical application, just scent and color. Dancing with Elonna, her bare feet leaving no trace on the ground, Nicole playing a violin tuned for a Dalish song. Later, Charles making fun of them braiding hair and floral wreaths, and getting the biggest and most colorful one, heavy enough to need shrubs holding it together. Fingers sliding through hair and blossoms to fit the wreath, his eyes soft and hopeful.

Ray choked on a sob and squeezed his eyes tightly. A single summer, the first and the last, and whatever happened to the world now, _his_ world was already ashes, his last memories not of grass and a lake, but of hopelessness in corridors smelling of lyrium. They should have run, before. They should have run from the temple. Maybe they were trying to do so and that had led them to Corypheus’ ritual. Past that there was the certainty that Corypheus hadn’t forced the Anchor on him, the doubt that Ray himself had done something, something that saved his life and killed everyone else but the magister.

“Ray, open your eyes!”

Solas’ hands were on his temples and something made him obey the command, eyelashes heavy with tears. Solas’ face, in front of him, was a blur, as were the words that followed until Ray was pulled into listening to them over the sound of his breathing.

“…control of your emotions in the Fade at any time.”

Solas was standing over him and tilting his face up. The ground was stone. The blocks of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and the lyrium could still be felt around them.

“Just look at me. Hold a moment. Good.” The air cleared and the same grass Ray had imagined sprung from the ground. “Now look past me and relax. There’s no true danger. You’re in control here. It’s all right.”

Solas let go and Ray, having been pulled up to his knees, sagged back down. The grass stayed, the air was warm, invisible insects were buzzing, but he didn’t feel in control.

“I should go, I’m no good today.” He reached to wipe the tears and found his face already dry. “Not a good day.”

“It’s all right,” Solas repeated and sat down, staff long vanished.

“All is not right. I don’t know what it would take for it to be anywhere close to all right.” One more look from Solas had him sighing and trying to relax as instructed. “Solas… would you talk to the other mages? Tell them some of what you’ve told me?”

“About this?”

“No, I haven’t told anyone about this. I mean… just about how to see things. We can’t simply copy textbooks and cut the self-loathing and fear out of them. Something else needs to fill the blanks.”

“Will they listen?” Solas’ smile was grim.

“I will find you the ones who will. Please!” Solas nodded slowly and Ray exhaled in relief. “Even Fiona thinks in the end we’ll just wait for what the new Divine has to offer. I don’t know what to do… or how to do it.”

“Pick the fights you can win, remember your goals, and do nothing that does not further them.”

“Beyond the immediate goals of dealing with Corypheus and the rifts,” Ray muttered, “the Inquisition might even turn against me.”

“Yet not all goals are immediate, or you’d have left for Tevinter a year ago.”

Even knowing what the future might have looked like, Ray sometimes regretted not taking that offer. Maybe the world would have crumbled anyway, but he wouldn’t have been alone for that, and not for the aftermath. Or maybe even Corypheus would have made something different from the world if he had the Anchor and gotten his throne.

“For the time being the Inquisition is our best chance of dealing with the threat, it’s the same road. As for what comes after…” 

“Cassandra actually tried for a truce last night. Told me she had no regrets about me being the Inquisitor,” Ray smiled ruefully. It was hard imagining Cassandra lying. “Maybe it’s just from putting Hawke in perspective. I don’t really want another war for us, Solas.”

War, years ago, in Ostwick, had been a vaguely attractive idea. Just a ship full of Qunari, and no more than a dozen of them in Ostwick, had been enough to turn the tide of acceptance. But if they had to fight against half of Thedas, things would be different. He’d taken a leaf from Blackwall’s book and encouraged more to learn how to stand up for themselves, but those were the mages here and now. When this was over, there would still be more mages born, without the alliance and without the spoils of war. 

“Cassandra already changed her mind about you once, didn’t she? She also put the wheels of the Inquisition in motion, but then stepped down. Very few, however honorable, release power they have won.”

“And yet you’re not encouraging me to step down myself,” Ray teased and Solas chuckled.

“Sharing power is a noble sentiment, but, ultimately, a mistake. There are few regrets sharper than watching fools squander what you sacrificed to achieve.”

“You do your name justice, Solas,” Ray himself chuckled. Cullen had no worries about Solas getting possessed in the Fade, deeming the mage too similar to the demons that walked there.

Solas rose and extended his hand to Ray, “we should go. A servant is coming to wake you up.”

* * *

Putting Josephine’s worries to rest was probably going to be the easiest task of the day. They usually ended up taking breakfast together, and today wasn’t an exception. Josephine had been up for a while, but she had waited for him. Like most any morning they had toast, eggs and some exotic jam in front of the fireplace in her office. In many ways this carried all sorts of memories of Haven and of her being one of the people he trusted. Some part of him, more cynical than usual, told him that the boundaries Josephine would set for him would be just as constraining, but still she seemed inclined to push for piece on his terms, and she was always kind. Having spent most of way back from Redcliffe catching up on Josephine’s and Leliana’s notes, and barely getting halfway through them, made it clear that there was no way for him to stay on top of every single operation of the Inquisition. At least Josephine’s notes were always nicely organized. Leliana’s were a shuffled pile of cipher and maps. Perhaps she took pleasure in it.

“Does Leliana confide in you?”

Josephine’s hand paused with a spoonful of sugar hovering over her coffee before the brown crystals poured in.

“Yes,” Josephine replied with an unhappy sigh, slowly stirring her coffee, “but she’s grown so much more distant than the outgoing woman I met in Val Royeaux. I think she confides in you more than she does in me.” She raised the cup of coffee to her lips. “Which is natural, our roles in the Inquisition are very different.”

“Having to report to me is not quite the same, is it?”

“No, but…” Josephine looked at him almost pleadingly, “you must realize the game we are playing now is very different. Leliana used to wander the Orlesian courts singing the sweetest songs, charming the greatest wits. Now she collects secrets and takes risks that would make empires tremble. I worry, but she will not hear it. She seems more comfortable around you.”

He typically got along with Leliana, that much was true. She hadn’t pursued any further conversation about him being holy, and he for his part didn’t interrupt her prayers when he happened upon them. The two occasions on which he had tried to ask about the Hero of Ferelden, however, had ended with a clear-cut, if softly spoken, _”another time, perhaps”_.

“I understand you’re upset about Kirkwall, but for what she did on the Divine’s orders, I ask you to show consideration. Justinia’s death hit her hard. Demolishing the image of a dead friend won’t change the past.”

“No,” Ray swallowed, “nothing will change the past.”

* * *

“I’ll wait in West Hill then, don’t be too late.” Isabela let go of Hawke’s wrist and patted him on the shoulder, then turned to Ray. “I quite like your Ambassador’s terms, so I’ll be back to give those arrangements of yours a try. But first I’ll be taking Hawke home.”

She saluted by minutely lifting her hat with a finger.

“I have one more social call to make, that might take a while. No, not Varric,” she rolled her eyes, “though I hope you said goodbye.”

“I did. I also had breakfast. I slept a full night… rather surprisingly.” Hawke looked at Isabela annoyed, then smiled. He did look rested, indeed, much more so than the day before. “I’ll catch up with you in West Hill, should be about a week.”

Isabela blew a kiss at either of them and sashayed away, leaving the two in Hawke’s room. The furniture was still rather basic, but the Inquisition seemed to have a good supply of fabric by now, the bedding and curtains looking downright luxurious against the rest. The stained glass of the open window was simple, the darkest parts of it pale blue. Ray had been worried at some point about the mages not being anxious to be living behind stone walls again, but Skyhold felt nothing like a Circle. It hadn’t even been a month and everybody seemed to start feeling at home. The children hadn’t taken long, either. By the time he’d come back from Halamshiral, they had already been the loudest inhabitants of the castle. It had taken significantly longer for anyone in Ostwick’s castle to drop the habit of quietly blending in.

“There were quite a few volunteers to actively join the Inquisition, as dreadful as the name might be,” Hawke noted, then sighed. “I didn’t mean to disrupt your council like I did. Just too hard to resist. I swear I used to be a lot more diplomatic, once upon a time.”

“They were looking for you to make you Inquisitor, to unite people,” Ray laughed at Hawke’s astounded expression. “Of course, they thought the Divine would still be there to command, but they should have been prepared for at least one conversation.”

“So they wanted a figurehead under the Divine and instead got someone irreplaceable and no Divine,” Hawke shook his head. “I could never be the Inquisitor, neither would I have agreed to it. I could barely get my friends to stop fighting, let alone Thedas. The mages here have also pretty much condemned my… plus one.”

The world at large was probably going to have a fit at the loose alliance with the mages in Rivain, if it became known that Anders was among them. Even Josephine had faltered there, the diplomacy of it all too precarious.

“You’re going to that ball for the peace talks, right?” Hawke grinned. “Dance with someone scandalous, it’s quite an experience. Although I suppose Orlais is more difficult to scandalize, and you being a mage won’t be a novelty to them. Speaking of unconventional friends…”

Hawke put his gloves on, tucking the ends under the wide cuffs of his overcoat. Only the thick cloak remained draped across the back of a chair, everything else was packed.

“I meant to ask you about Cole. He’s been… lingering around.”

* * *

Two solders had brought gardening tools and the sapling, its roots in a deep pot filled with water, explained how to plant it, and left him alone. Ray had picked a remote corner of the garden and it was still early in the morning, so there weren’t many people around. He’d turned his back to them when midway through digging the hole everything had blurred from the tears that had welled up. By the time he had taken out the box Solas had handed him on that first day and placed the dry twig where the sapling’s roots were to go, his breath was hitching and the tears had gotten out.

Helenia had taught him that it helped, though not at night when it could give the templars the wrong idea.

“Can I help?” Cole’s voice startled him, the spirit squatting right next to him with a pained expression on his face. “Varric said I should ask instead of scaring people. You are hurting.”

Having his thoughts remain hidden from Cole was a mixed deal. The spirit didn’t have much to grasp on, so their conversations were mostly straightforward, without veering off into painful memories. Hearing those of others pulled into the open regardless of the audience felt wrong, even to him. Much more to their owners. On the other hand, Cole could advance his friendship, or, on occasion, enmity, with people much faster that way. Ray had the feeling he himself was still very much a mixture of helping and shiny to the spirit. Though perhaps that was for the better.

“It’s something like a funeral, for a friend.” Ray held up the tree and started pushing soul back into the hole. “She was Dalish, so… they do that. Have you ever been to a funeral?”

“I went to Haven. It was really loud.” Cole pushed some soil into the hole as well. “Solas doesn’t like how the Dalish think of spirits.”

Dangerous. Incomprehensible. Like wild animals walking the lands of the gods. Better left alone.

“Well, they think worse of humans, and yet…”

She hadn’t been wrong to think like that, of course. Ray remembered the day the Knight-Commander and two other templars had dragged Elonna into the First Enchanter’s rooms, interrupting his lesson. She had been lucky, if it still could be called that, to have been captured by one of the templars who thought even a heathen mage could be shown the light. The Knight-Commander had argued, wanting the lifelong apostate who wielded unknown magic dead. The strange girl with wide green eyes, ragged foreign clothes and disheveled hair had already looked sick and half dead. Helenia had made the phylactery there and then, wrapped the elf in a blanket and let her join the lesson, even if the girl had only understood a few words in Common.

She could barely speak, but her magic had been amazing and beautiful.

“Thank you for asking, Cole. It helps.” Ray regarded the little tree and didn’t know how to feel about it. There was no body for the roots to hold, and they had never talked about funerals. He should have asked Solas about an elven speech for it. “We didn’t even need to talk after all the years, all four of us. It was like we were one person.”

“Is it like a spirit?” Cole asked. “But they are still two people. Or perhaps not quite two, not always, but more than one. Hawke loves them both. I thought it didn’t work like that.”

“I don’t think Hawke and Varric have that sort of relationship, Cole,” Ray snickered, but the spirit was giving him a blank look. “Perhaps it’s too soon for dwarven stature jokes. Though I doubt Varric will teach you that after you’re done with the knock-knock ones. Or perhaps he will.”

“I don’t understand.” Cole blinked and Ray wondered why he needed to. “Varric is one whole person.”

“Ah, yes,” he realized neither had any idea what the other was talking about. It was oddly comforting, talking like equals in this peculiar situation. He watered the shallow basin left around the tree and wondered if he ought to put a stick for support. The tree looked strong enough, with its dark green elongated leaves. Wherever they had managed to find it, it had already stood against the winds of winter, and there was none of that within Skyhold’s walls.

“It is not always like a triangle.” Cole continued to make little sense, so Ray slid his hand down the pale bark one last time and turned to him.

“A triangle?” 

“Cassandra told me about triangles. The man with the green eyes watching as she dances with the man with the scar. Why can’t she make a choice? The right choice?” Cole cocked his head, eyes wide. “It is very difficult. I can’t help them.”

“ _Cassandra_ told you about love triangles?” Ray’s lips quirked in disbelief.

“No…” Cole hesitated. “She read aloud, but she knew I was there. She read it three times and sighed a lot, but wasn’t sad. Maybe she liked the man with the scar better, but he didn’t help the beggar. He could say things that flow and rhyme, but he didn’t help. The man with the green eyes didn’t like the man with the scar, either. He likes the woman, because she is the capricious mistress of his heart. I don’t understand.”

“I’m filing this information for later use, Cole,” Ray chuckled. Who would have thought?

“Yes. The new chapter isn’t out yet. I can tell you how the Knight-Captain decides, if Cassandra reads to me again.”

“I can’t wait,” Ray quipped and Cole, not acquainted with sarcasm, smiled and nodded.

“Yes, Cassandra either.” Cole fell silent for a few seconds. “Will it have a happy ending?”

“I don’t know,” Ray admitted. “I’ve only read maybe three love novels, and they didn’t match the reality of either the Circle nor the nobility. Maybe the woman will marry one and keep the other on the side. Depends on what they want.”

“It didn’t want anything when it was in the Fade.” Cole squinted in deep concentration “It envied love, and envy was what a demon feels, but if it wasn’t taking it from them, then he wished to be something more. He is proud of what they will accomplish together with Hawke.”

“Cole,” Ray prodded gently, switching to his approach of short and clear question to get information from Cole, “are you talking about a spirit?”

“Yes.”

“Hawke is in love with a spirit?”

“Yes. Isn’t that amazing? He doesn’t have to make a choice. The eyes belong to both, and so does the scar. A sword. A templar drove it through their heart when they merged, but they didn’t want to die, so Justice pulled it out and they healed. Blue and brilliant. He was not the only bright light in Kirkwall.” Cole smiled. “When they get a home again, they will need more layers of curtains for it.”

Ray stared ahead. There was something else Varric had been hiding, but then again Hawke hadn’t mentioned it either. For good reason, as Amund, the Avvar, had caused a small wave of chaos when he had mentioned that Avvar mages got themselves possessed to learn magic from the spirits. Nobody had been close to accepting something like that. Ray thought it had merit, after seeing what Solas could do, and after watching the mages trying to assemble something like a curriculum from half-books with half-knowledge in them.

“Frightening, if Cullen knew of that,” Ray laughed at the mental image of utter panic. He wondered if Cassandra knew. “But I suppose now I understand why Hawke said he couldn’t be the face of the mage rebellion.”

“Can I go with him?” Cole suddenly asked, eyes wider than before and somehow full of excitement.

“With Hawke? To Crestwood?”

“Yes. I’m curious about him.”

Hawke couldn’t have gotten that far in the hour or so since he had left, so Cole would be able to catch up, but…

“Don’t stalk him,” Ray frowned. “He knew you’d been around him. Ask him if you can travel together. If he leaves before we get to Crestwood, find Scout Harding’s camp.”

“Thank you!” Cole jumped to his feet with a broad smile on his face and Ray almost missed the moment he got to the castle’s door.

“Cole, wait!” He stood up, gave the tree one more look, _Farewell, lethallin_ , and ran to Cole, who had frozen still, waiting. “Do you want to take Equinor? We’re probably not leaving for another week, and it’s getting restless with the few short rides I’ve had time for. Just make people forget if someone is scared.”

“Yes!” Cole gave him another radiant smile, and then was gone with Ray barely catching the movement of the door as it closed.

* * *

Dorian was in the library, armor sparkling in the sunlight coming through the window. The new clothes fit him well, Ray caught himself smiling, still unnoticed by the other mage. He understood attraction, but knew very little of how to go about it with someone so new. Ostwick had been a fairly isolated Circle, small and static. He had grown up together with most of the people around his age, and rarely would anyone interesting get transferred there. Elonna had been the exception to all this, but their relationship had been different from that.

Mutual attraction, he had always thought, would be much easier. As it turned out, it wasn’t. Nothing seemed to work without knowing the person, and Ray found Dorian the hardest person to get to know. Whenever someone else turned the conversation against Ray, he could tell why they were doing it. When it came from people he was tentatively starting to befriend, that by itself was a new experience. There had been so little in the way of friendship and caring in the Circle, they had made it all that had been allowed in their little group. There had been jokes, but they had never been hurtful. With Dorian it was something entirely different, and the reason wasn’t because Dorian was usually somewhere between sad and angry. Ray was usually there himself. But next to the stories, magic, understanding and flirts, there invariably came snapping, ridicule, Dorian telling him that he didn’t understand… same as everyone who’d tell him he didn’t understand. Because there was more to the world than he knew of, but even the parts that he knew about, others insisted on knowing better than him.

His fingers closed around the letter from Dorian’s father to Mother Giselle. She had cornered him, the door to the garden closed against his back. The letter had probably come with the slower shipment from Tevinter, together with the crates with Alexius’ books that he had found in the room underneath his coming down from his quarters. It was already a reply to another letter, so Mother Giselle had been at this for a while, and probably would be relieved to see Dorian gone. 

She was all humble explanations, accompanied by sad knowing smiles, and he’d had his life’s fill of both of those in the Circle. Worried parents, reaching out, reconciling families. Dorian wouldn’t leave now, and they’d deal with the Venatori if it turned out to be a trap.

Helisma chose that moment to pass by, almost brushing against his side, and greeted, sending him into the stupor every sudden contact with the Tranquil caused.

* * *

_7 Wintermarch, 9:23_

_There was a tall blond girl staring at him when he sat up in his bed. The sheets were white, not blue and silver, and the bed was narrow. Ray didn’t know when they had carried him here. He had cried and pleaded and threatened the night before, and didn’t remember what had happened after that._

_“Please, I want to go home.” His throat hurt and he whispered without meaning to._

_“They won’t let you go home,” the girl said, and he’d already known that. There had been one mage on his father’s ship, and he’d had to wait until he was thirty-five to be allowed to serve on a ship. The next year he’d been gone and his father had been unhappy that they wouldn’t allow another one to join the crew. The girl had walked to his bed now, dressed for hunting. She was older than him, because she was taller and wore adult clothes. At home they had only started dressing him in adult clothes on special occasions, like this one. He was still wearing his travel clothes._

_“I’m Nicole Cardowan, what’s your name?”_

_“Ray Trevelyan.” He was still sitting in the bed, clutching the thin covers. There was another bed glued to the other wall. There were only two walls. Across from him there was a metal partition, through which he could see a whole lot of bunk beds, like on a ship for those who weren’t officers. The room didn’t have a fourth wall, because it wasn’t a room. He was in the corner of a hall. He had seen one like that the previous day, and he didn’t want to live here._

_“I wanted to meet you before breakfast,” Nicole said, “but you wouldn’t wake up. If we miss breakfast, we’ll have to eat with the Tranquil.”_

_Ray didn’t know who the Tranquil were, but he’d always been woken up in time for breakfast at home. There were some windows higher up on the wall over the other bed, and it was daytime. He dragged his feet to the side of the bed and leaned to look for his boots. Nicole was wearing low shoes, he noticed, so she wasn’t going out. His boots reached to his knees and had two long shoes laces each. Whoever had taken them off him the night before, had loosened the laces so much, they had slipped free at the top. Only the servants at home knew how much to leave on each side so that they tied up evenly._

_“Your other things are there,” Nicole pointed to the three chests a few steps away. She wasn’t a servant, so she probably wouldn’t tie his boots for him. His sister sometimes did, but that was because she was his sister and six years his elder, and she’d known him since he’d been born. There was only one other person in the hall, beyond the partition, but he was armored and unmoving._

_“Do you need help with your clothes? I used to need help at home, too, for tying a sash on a dress.”_

_Ray nodded. He wanted clean clothes, too, and the ones he was wearing had too many buttons and straps._

_“I’ll get someone,” Nicole ran out and disappeared through a door to the side. She came back only seconds later, before he had come up with a plan on how to get home._

_“They will do things like that if you ask them to, but we’re supposed to dress ourselves.”_

_A servant approached and there was something wrong about him. He didn’t have a face. He had large eyes, and elven ears, and a nose, and all, but they were all empty. The elven gardener at home had only half a face, because the other half had been in a fire and was always covered, but the half that was still there was kind and clever, and his eyes sparkled when Ray would help with the flowers. This servant here also had the right colors, not white and blue, but he still looked like the man they had pulled out of the water at the harbor one day, only they had covered him right away and everyone had been quiet._

_Ray sat there, frozen with dread, until the man wrapped fingers around his calf to guide his foot into the boot. He made a weak attempt to kick his leg free and when that didn’t work, pulled himself as far back onto the bed as he could. The servant adjusted his grip and raised the boot. Ray screamed, and the man lifted his face to him, and he screamed more. Nicole’s astonished face was there for a moment until it blurred and then he squeezed his eyes shut, unable to stop shaking and crying. There was a lot of noise around him, too, of metal and an angry male voice. Nicole was shouting and then something hit him, but it wasn’t a hand, nor metal. His body seized, his head throbbed, first all of it, and then in the back, when he felt himself falling back and hitting it against the wall. Nicole was still shouting, then all went quiet._

_There was a breeze that smelled of an oncoming storm and he didn’t hurt anywhere when he opened his eyes._

_“Keep quiet,” Nicole whispered. She was sitting on his bed and he had curled up against the wall. “Don’t tell them I healed you, I am not allowed to yet.”_

_He couldn’t heal a headache, he had tried it once. Some mages could, like the one on the ship, the one who had escaped. They were rare, and when his grandmother had been very ill, his mother had called for some of them, but Ray hadn’t been allowed into that part of the house._

_“The templar thought you were going to destroy the place. You haven’t been through the training to contain your magic yet. But even after that you shouldn’t yell and cry.”_

_“I can contain my magic. I kept it hidden since last spring.” Although if he did manage to destroy the place, they would have to send him home, where there was a lot more space. He pushed himself up. “What did the templar do?”_

_“A smite,” Nicole shuddered. “You won’t be able to cast for a while after being on the receiving end of one. How did they catch you?”_

_“There was a duck frozen in the garden pond. I didn’t know anyone was watching and unfroze the surface,” Ray sighed. “The duck was really loud.”_

_“Oh, wow, you managed to free it? Or bake it? I once zapped a bird in the air because I wanted it for dinner. I think the templars ate it, but I’m not sure because they put me in the cells. I asked afterwards and nobody had had fowl for dinner. Of course, I hadn’t either, they don’t give you fowl in the cells.”_

_“I freed it, it was a small pond,” Ray managed to get in before Nicole took charge again._

_“I like you. I like philistinists. Philanderists…, no, philanthropists. It’s when you help people, but I don’t see why not ducks. It gets you into trouble though, doesn’t it? Charles made a bear disappear when it attacked their campsite, and then his parents brought him here. Charles is my best friend and once I managed to get all the templars’ washed socks, and he made them turn rotten and smelly. You have to keep quiet about this, because we didn’t get caught. I’m eleven, how old are you?”_

_Ray murmured a quiet_ “eight” _and waited for more words to come out of Nicole, but the bed shook as she rose with a jump, ran over the small table in the corner, onto her own bed, sitting down again right away. Helenia, the old lady who’d come to the house and been nice and curious about him, had just walked through the same door to the right. Ray had thought she would stay and tutor him at the estate, but a few of his things had been loaded onto a coach the next day. This castle looked better from the outside, and from afar, than it really was, and Helenia had taken him into her room and cut his hand._

* * *

_24 Firstfall, 9:41_

Helisma was already a few steps away, her greeting having alerted others to his presence, and Dorian has giving him a knowing look. He was holding a copy of _Tale of the Champion_ , which he promptly shoved onto the shelf between the other books.

“So, how bad was it? Leliana was singing this morning. Some haunting tune, most certainly not Chantry. Even Solas stopped his painting to listen.”

“There has always been mistrust, last night just made that clear again.” Ray hesitated as Dorian’s eyes narrowed skeptically. A “told you so” didn’t follow. “Would you like to get away for a few days?”

“Punishing them with your absence? Such a royal thing to do.” Dorian smirked and sank into his chair. “Where would we be going? I hope it’s not another dragon. I’m not made for the wilderness. I’m more taverns and big cities.”

He’d have to tell him eventually, and preferably sooner. By now he felt Mother Giselle had guilt-tripped him into this.

“Dorian, there’s a letter you need to see.” Ray’s hand froze with the letter halfway out of his pocket at Dorian’s chuckle.

“I know the letters you get. But at least the barbarians are demonstrating good taste in something. Or is it a naughty letter from some Antivan dowager? You needn’t look that far, in fact…”

“Not quite,” Ray interrupted. “It’s from your father.”

Dorian was out of his chair and onto his feet before he seemed to catch himself and relax. 

“From my father. I see. And what does Magister Halward want, pray tell?”

“A meeting.”

Dorian grabbed the letter from him and was livid about every single sentence in it. It made sense to be angry about it. It made sense to be angry about it. Especially the bit about this whole thing passing through Mother Giselle, who were to keep the meeting secret until the last moment. 

Ray was familiar with a family not knowing him and with attempts at reconciliation. But the latter didn’t always have to be about meeting in the middle. He had won and before closing the Breach he’d thought things had ended up as good as they were ever likely to get with his family. Dorian was an only child, and him being a mage was not a problem for once. That battle against parents seemed so much easier. _Get out. You are no son of mine._ Cole’s words, Dorian’s father’s words, rang in his head and Ray had grown up among people forgotten by their families. He had been lucky. He _was_ lucky, even if he was also glad it was in politics’ best interest that his family stayed away from the Inquisition. 

Few of the mages in Skyhold remembered a family. Vivienne proudly rejected the notion, and Ray hated the world she cherished.

“I think you should meet with this retainer… find out what your family wants.”

“I didn’t ask what you thought, did I?” Dorian’s voice suddenly dropped after the snap. “That… was unworthy. I apologize.”

Ray had stepped back at the outburst and threw a pointed look at two women who had stopped to watch. They hurried past him to another part of the library and Ray stepped closer to Dorian.

“Is it because you wouldn’t get married?”

Marriage he was less familiar with. It was neither something he had ever aspired to, nor had he been pressured into it. He had seen enough of his family and relatives go through it, and it seemed they were either happy with it, or happily ignoring it. The mechanics of inheritance and business were clear enough, and Dorian had already told him once about the Tevinter custom of marrying for the best possibly mage children.

“That too,” Dorian’s hand holding the letter finally dropped to his side. “There’d be no harm in hearing what this man of my father’s has to say. If I don’t like it, however, I want to leave.”

“Of course,” Ray readily agreed.

“But not before I send the man back to my father with the message that he can stick his alarm in his ‘wit’s end.’ If it’s a trap, we escape and kill everyone. You’re good at that.”

Dorian was back to his usual self, at least.

* * *

He spent some time standing on the stairs to the spymaster’s corner before finally taking the last few steps up. Leliana was singing to Baron Plucky a familiar tune in a low voice, the raven shaking his head and spreading wings halfway with a long “uh-huh” every now and again. She stopped when he stood in front of her table, the Baron turning sideways to see who’d interrupted the performance, then resuming his swaying. The spymaster’s window overlooked the garden.

“I hadn’t realized Orlesian bards knew Dalish songs.”

He couldn’t sing well, but more than that he hadn’t wanted to sing of Uthenera after the conversations with Solas the night before. That was lost, and even if it hadn’t been, Elonna hadn’t gone sleeping, tired of life.

“I didn’t learn it in Orlais. It was in Ferelden, during the Blight. A clan’s new Keeper taught it to me.” Leliana rose to open one wing of the small window. Baron Plucky had just discovered a flower-shaped brooch under some papers he had pulled aside, and ignored Leliana’s finger tapping on the glass. Finally, the spymaster took a step back to the table and snatched the brooch away. “Off you go,” the raven looked unperturbed and ready to stand there forever, “now, now.”

Baron Plucky finally deigned to follow orders, made a few brief hops to the top of a stack of papers and flew out of the window, immediately taking a sharp turn left.

“He’s gotten used to not listening, lately. And to taking a lot of space.” Leliana closed the window and started putting the scattered pages back together. For what it was worth, the way they were now wasn’t much different from how Ray got them.

“I have a lot of room. Will you be taking him back?”

“He isn’t mine,” Leliana said after a long moment of staring at him. “I thought he’d enjoy the company of a mage more. He does, too. Just keep shiny valuables in locked boxes.”

Leliana slipped the brooch in a pocket, her hand remaining there.

“His owner was also very unhappy with how Justinia did things. Perhaps it is good that I’m in no position to ask you to be considerate.”

“Who was his owner?”

Consideration for the bunch of dead leaders had only entered his mind the previous evening as a bitter side taste. Meredith was dead, as was Lambert, as was Justinia. Cullen, Cassandra, Leliana had all followed their orders, for years. Ray couldn’t help wondering just whom they’d find to follow if he himself died and left them without a leader once again.

“Aileas Amell,” Leliana’s quiet reply startled him. “She spoiled him too. Although he did listen to her.”

“So you really do know her quite well,” Ray murmured. There was something to be said about a raven being better connected and privy to more information than Ray was. “I don’t understand. Why would Justinia seek to recruit her and Hawke, but then do nothing like they would have advised her?”

A brief laugh escaped Leliana’s lips before she stifled it.

“It was to be a last resort. Do you know what Amell did when Justinia asked for her advice?” Leliana grimaced. “Laughed in her face, called her delusional and told her to use what control over lyrium she still had to tame the templars.”

“You think she was wrong?”

“It wasn’t as simple as that! Justinia barely had control over Lord Seeker Lambert. The templars would have rebelled, it would have been war. Do you think mages would have been safer then?”

“The war still happened, if it can even be called that, and mages weren’t safe either way. It would have been the templars’ rebellion, however.” Ray gritted his teeth. The last resort had still waited for years, and things were so much simpler with both sides largely dead. “Mages paid the price while you tried to appease your army, and we weren’t an army ourselves.”

Leliana spent a few seconds with her head turned, resolutely staring at the window.

“When I had this conversation with Amell, she stormed out and didn’t reappear for two months. I preached hope and gentle reform to her, but it seems all it instilled was hopelessness and anger, and she saw it too, saw it everywhere. She used to tell me she liked my views on the Maker, and I didn’t notice that had stopped years ago.”

“Just how long have you known the Hero of Ferelden?”

“I was there when she defeated the Archdemon. We won the day, and I thought the Maker smiled on me. But perhaps there is no happily ever after.”

Leliana stepped closer and took out the brooch, then reached to fasten it on Ray’s buttonhole. It was a simple flower, its petals crafted with amazing precision. The edges reached the translucency of minerals while the center was a deep red metal. Was it another dwarven gift?

“It’s an Andraste’s Grace,” Leliana smiled weakly. “Amell gave it to me many years ago, before the Divine requested my help. She had a knack for giving the right gifts… most of the time. Didn’t care much for shoes.”

“Shoes?” was all Ray managed to repeat for a moment, his mind still halted at _there_ , as in _on top of Fort Drakon with the Archdemon_. “Why are you giving her things away, what happened to her?”

“I don’t know,” Leliana shook her head and stepped back. “I fear what Loghain will tell us when we manage to find him. She shouldn’t be there, Howe would have known, but with Corypheus… I promise we will talk more about it then.”

“All right,” Ray finally said. “Thank you for the brooch. I will keep it safe from the Baron. I am… not leaving for two months, but I need a few days for a trip to Redcliffe and back. If we’re short on time, I will get to Crestwood from there.”

Leliana hadn’t known about the letter to Mother Giselle and Ray could instantly tell that didn’t please her. He still didn’t want to read whatever she had gathered on Dorian, nor wanted to have Redcliffe scoured and whatever henchman there was brought to Skyhold. The memory of last night was still too fresh and Leliana wasn’t in the mood to argue, so after two minutes of stubborn staring from both sides Ray left the rookery with the arrangement of traveling alone with Dorian - with a squad of four ahead of them, and another one following.


	28. Chapter 28

_24 Firstfall, 9:41_

Cole fretted. He had meant to be silent and stealthy, and just watch. What if Hawke said no? He should make him forget they had talked and start over, but sometimes even that failed, and more often when he tried it on a mage. He couldn’t ask Varric about this.

He should make him forget it, after all. Ray hadn’t said not to make him forget it. Cole could ask until Hawke said yes.

He got distracted four times on his way to the stables, and the last hurt to heal got him into the kitchens. There wasn’t anyone there who could tell him how to fix things without making people forget. Cole had to make a servant forget, because he scared her into dropping the plates she was carrying, then ended up having to make the cook forget that the servant had dropped the plates. He wandered to the round library under Solas’ room, but Dorian wasn’t there. And Solas had already answered questions for Cole this morning.

Mother Giselle was talking to Ray, so he couldn’t ask him either, make sure what he was allowed to do. It was then that Cole had an idea and knew where he needed to go.

* * *

Josephine was happier now, quieter than she’d been last night. _How? How can one elf eat so much jam?_ Only little worries, and the work for the Inquisition. Plucking strings, matching wits and words, she was the right person to ask. She didn’t like him lurking and scaring the guests, so he put all his will into being completely visible.

“Hello.”

“Maker!” Josephine started and Cole nearly made himself invisible to try again. He should have made himself visible at the door. _Why is this hat’s brim always falling over his face?_ Then she straightened and smiled. “Hello, Cole. Can I help you with anything?”

“Yes!” She had given the refugees warmer quarters with just a word from him, she would help. She taught Ray how to speak, too. “How do I make someone forget something bad without making him forget? I didn’t start right.”

“You mean smoothen relationships?” Josephine’s face brightened. She liked smooth relationships and Cole was trying to fix his own. _I hope it won’t backfire, my whole afternoon is already full._ “You could always start with an apology, if you genuinely didn’t mean to insult him. A gift, too, perhaps?”

“A gift!” He knew right away, and there were so many of them. They would take some time to collect. How would Hawke find them? Cole had left the wooden duck on Dorian’s bed, but he would have to sneak and wait until Hawke made camp to leave the gift for him to find, and he wasn’t supposed to do that. “How do I give it to him?”

“Bring it to me,” Josephine sighed. “I will help you make it presentable, and then you can just hand it to the person.”

“Thank you!” Cole remembered to stay there and visible when he ran out.

* * *

It was good that Varric’s words didn’t make things real outside of the Fade. The ravens didn’t attract large cats. Even the small ones swatted his feet, at his most invisible. Large cats would have made this so much more difficult, and it already took a lot of time.

Josephine was worried when he came back carrying the feathers in his hat. She was worried when the brim fell over his face and when it didn’t.

“Cole, who is this for?”

“Hawke. I have to make him agree.” _But he left… what kind of a gift is this?_ “He misses them, they are like home and he wants to return there.”

Josephine’s brows furrowed, but she stood up to walk to a chest near the fireplace. The box she took out was pale pink, with golden rims, and it had a lot of frilly gloves inside of it. Josephine took the gloves out. She brought the box to the table, together with some green paper and a roll of pink band, as pale as the box’s color.

Cole put the feathers in the box himself, but once they were all in, Josephine closed the lid, wrapped the box in the green paper and fastened it with a long piece of the pink band. _I don’t suppose he’d want to leave a card._

She explained to him how it all worked. A surprise. The green paper wasn’t there to protect the box against the snow, he would still need to carry it in a bag. Sometimes one could press an unwrapped gift into someone’s hands, but that was perhaps too intimate. _Should still have kept it safely in a box, where could it be?_ A grandmother’s brooch, proudly fastened on her dress after her return from Val Royeaux. Teachers proud, parents proud, she would be the one who carries the name and the business. 

* * *

The brooch was easy to follow, the raven liked shining and shimmering things. Cole waited on Solas’ table for Ray to finish talking to Dorian, but then he went on to talk to Leliana. There wasn’t much time, and the brooch was Josephine’s after all, so Cole sneaked into the high tower and into Ray’s room. It was was full of things, but Cole would need to look on the narrow balcony over the bed. Baron Plucky was perched outside and at first didn’t react, although Cole could sense he was already upset with something. The moment Cole dove into the niche and started climbing the ladder, a muffled croak came from the other side of the glass, and then the Baron was flying in from the small circular window that stayed open.

Cole was already rummaging through the Baron’s collection when the bird descended upon him. He couldn’t reason with animals. They either liked and trusted him, or they didn’t. Baron Plucky didn’t like or trust him right now, because Cole had his hands in his pile of treasure. No other ravens ever came here to steal his treasures, so the Baron had a lot of them. He also had a mirror propped between the parapet and the twigs and silk of his nest, and a shallow basin of water.

“You stole this too,” Cole said to him, all the while fending off attacks while trying not to hurt the bird. “It is not yours.”

Baron Plucky didn’t care about Josephine or about returning things to their rightful owner. He was the owner now. Maybe Ray would come into his room soon and hold back the Baron, but Ray wasn’t coming. Cole grabbed a handful of treasures and threw them over the railing and onto the floor. The Baron was so angry now, abandoning Cole for a few seconds to fly after his scattered belongings before thinking better of it, and a few seconds were all Cole needed to grab the brooch and run, yelling “Forget! Forget!”, and hoping it would work.

His new hat was scratched, his face was scratched, his hands too. Josephine would worry again, so he made himself invisible, dropped the brooch on the couch in her room and quietly left to finally follow Hawke.

* * *

Cole let Equinor gallop almost all the way down the road. It was harder to get pulled by people’s thoughts when they were quickly left in the distance. He still had to slow down a few times when the road was too crowded with carts, and then found it difficult to get back to hurrying. He had to make people forget Equinor, too. Some were scared, others wanted to touch it, and then almost everyone was asking where the Inquisitor was. The sun had climbed up all the way when he saw Hawke talking to a group of mages. They weren’t like the ones in Skyhold, their staves were mostly wooden, their clothes more fur than fabric. Other mages had come to Skyhold before, but none like these.

Cole stayed back until Hawke was on his way again, the slope of the mountain road barely noticeable. He still wasn’t sure how he should apologize. It would have been easier if what he had said had hurt Hawke, then he would know how to say sorry, but somehow he had let curiosity win over compassion. This kept happening, but usually with Ray, because the mark was so loud and bright, or with Solas, because he was so quiet. It was scary when it happened with other people, and Cole had spent the night first outside the door to Hawke’s room, then at the foot of his bed. Hawke liked the feel of it, calmer. It was like the feathers, home, like Cole felt around Ray’s mark.

In the end it was Hawke who noticed him and stared at him from the flat rock he was sitting on while having lunch. Cole stepped closer, warily, with Equinor’s reins in his hand. Hawke was calmer here, and quiet.

“Cole, would you like to have some food?” His voice was warm, welcoming, and Cole wondered. He didn’t eat, but he stretched his hand to take the salted meat Hawke was holding to him, then ground his teeth around it.

“Bleh,” Cole swallowed, then it came back, chewy and half-chewed, and he lowered his head to let it drop to the ground. He didn’t drink water either, but he readily took the waterskin Hawke handed him, and it felt good to have it wash away the funny feeling.

“Sorry about that, you just looked starved.” Something stirred in Cole, a pain that wasn’t his but wasn’t Hawke’s either, not anymore. It felt scarier than curiosity did, so he made himself forget it and only then remembered to hand back the water. Hawke was worried now, unsure. “I’m sorry I snapped at you yesterday, a personal flaw of mine. Compassion is a wonderful feeling and if you let me accompany you for a bit, I’d like to help you do your work.”

“Yes!” It had worked out after all, Hawke was smiling and Cole could travel with him. There had been times when compassion had seemed enough of a justice, on the day Hawke had walked into a clinic in the sewers.

“Where are you headed?”

“I…” Cole hopped to Equinor’s side to pull the present out of the saddlebag. “I hope this helps. Can I come with you to Crestwood?”

Hawke took the wrapped box, first in one hand, then in the other, shook it and spun it, and then finally pulled on the ribbon and paper. He was almost as quiet as Solas, and as resolute as him, but once the pain faded, there was no guilt and regret lingering. He also had the same gentle smile as he buried a hand in the feathers. Cole hoped there were enough of them. He hadn’t wanted to pull them off the ravens and had only collected what lay on the floor of the rookery and in the cages.

“Thank you, Cole. You’re a very kind person. You are welcome if you want to come with me.”

* * *

_25 Firstfall, 9:41_

They passed the town with the port and traveled around it instead, not even keeping too close to the Imperial Highway. Instead they found people to help, those hurrying to gather the last of what harvest was out there and prepare for winter.

Hawke was the most wonderful human Cole had ever met. He knew how to help people and they liked having him around after he had helped them. Hawke knew how to make soup, and he didn’t need to forget like Skyhold’s head cook did. She always saw the fire of Haven when she looked into the fires of the kitchens, and she thought of the old cook, who lied under a rock, his head in pieces. Hawke smiled and hummed, and didn’t think of Kirkwall while he cooked, not of the fire and not of the falling rocks.

He’d made soup for an old couple, then chopped a lot of wood for them, and they would have let him stay in the old empty room with the bed, if Hawke hadn’t insisted on staying in the barn.

“If I talk to them, will I learn something?”

The old couple hadn’t needed Cole. They had hurts, but they kept them close. Cole wasn’t sure whether it was old people or there was something else. Dorian kept it close too, and trying to pull it apart made him hurt more. When it was tangled with love, he couldn’t tug it loose without tearing it.

“Do you want to learn?”

“I want to help. How do you get it right on the first time?”

Varric could do it too, a lot of the time. People listened, and even if they weren’t happy afterwards, they were calmer. Cole couldn’t remember if he’d failed and restarted so often before. It was worse for those he didn’t make forget.

“I’ve had a lot of practice. Spent a decade talking to villagers and farmers. I used to dislike it so much.”

Always hiding, a bag packed for emergencies. Father stern all the time, then he died and left them alone. Mother unhappy with that life once he wasn’t around any longer, Bethany always wandering into the damn Chantry close to the templars, Carver sulking, wanting out as well.

“I think I’ll be giving it another try, if this is ever over and we live. Just a place of our own. Close enough to a village for people to come for healing, but not too close. A mabari puppy,” Hawke smiled fondly, “and a few cats. He’d give them ridiculous names. I’d let Justice name the mabari. He never seemed to mind pets… after. He never seemed to mind anything that wasn’t related to mages. Maybe there is hope.”

A place without the high windows and plush carpets of the Amell estate, and far from the Gallows’ shadow and the sewers of Kirkwall with their carved stone floors. A place to be happy in, but he didn’t know whether Justice could be happy in such a place, whether the absence of injustice would be enough. Cole didn’t know either. He would want to go where there was hurt to heal.

But Justice wanted Hawke, and it wasn’t only Anders’ want even with their feelings merged. When they possessed people, they often indulged in feelings they had never before experienced, Solas had said. Cole didn’t want those feelings for himself, and he wasn’t possessing anyone, but even so they were hard to ignore, even the echoes clinging to Hawke strong and loud. 

“I don’t know,” Cole admitted. “He is different from me, but I don’t know how. He’s not confused any longer.”

Cole was often confused about things in this world. Sometimes he feared he would lose himself again, become a demon. Then Cassandra would have to kill him.

“Does your body age, Cole? Could another spirit do what you did?”

A silver strand in Anders’ hair, the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes deeper. Justice had noticed it one day in Hawke as well, truly recognizing mortality for the first time. The pity he had felt for mortals years ago had turned to grief. Cole hadn’t thought what he would do if he were the only one left one day. He couldn’t return to the Fade, just like Justice couldn’t. Justice wasn’t confused, but Cole didn’t know whether he himself wanted to go back.

“I don’t know… I don’t remember how I entered this world or for how long I’ve been in it.”

In the Fade at Adamant he had known the scared boy in the cupboard, much younger, had been him. But then Lord Seeker Lambert had made him understand that he wasn’t human, and he had forgotten even more.

“There was another like me at Therinfal,” Cole finally said, hopefully. “It wasn’t friendly and the Chargers killed it. But it could take their shapes and learn their minds. If it could understand, then this world made sense to it, and it didn’t have to look wrong.”

Most of all, Hawke liked having Cole around, even more so than Solas did, and he didn’t hide his thoughts.

* * *

_27 Firstfall, 9:41_

“Good to see you safe, Inquisi…” Scout Harding put a hand over her eyes to stop the rain from running into her eyes. “Cole?”

“Yes. That is my name.” Scout Harding always organized people into helping. She didn’t want them to know that her name was Lace.

“Ah… and that horse,” Scout Harding sighed and moved a bit back, under a flapping sailcloth that had been stretched over the raves’ cage. “Always seems to find its kind prowling around. Are you going to leave it with us again?”

“There are undead in Crestwood?” Hawke stepped forth and under the sailcloth as well, removing the hood of his cloak. Cole had his hat and although that could come off, he didn’t like it when it did.

“Ser Hawke! Glad to have you with us.” She was sad once again, after the pleasant surprise. “I think they are the Blight victims from ten years ago. Crestwood was the site of the flood then, and now… they are walking again. I nearly stepped on one in the grass the other night, before it started moaning.”

“Have they attacked the camp?”

“We’ve had a few shamblers, but most head toward the village below.” Scout Harding shook her head. “We can’t go much further though, and Maker knows the villagers will want help. We haven’t been able to track down your Grey Warden friend either.”

It was strange how people saw others differently. Varric didn’t see Anders and Justice like Hawke did, and Hawke didn’t see Loghain like Threnn did. Threnn had a lot more spare time now that she wasn’t quartermaster, and she spent a lot of it thinking of her former life as soldier under Loghain.

They only left Hawke’s horse with the scouts before they turned to walk to the village. Equinor wasn’t scared of anything, even in battle. Hawke didn’t ride it either. He could fight like Cole did, leaping and thrusting the blade of his staff, dancing amidst the magic.

Equinor trampled a small undead body and Hawke sighed before he burned it.

“Do they still have some of their memories intact?”

“Yes.” Cole looked dolefully at the pile of ashes. The necklace from mother had been around the boy’s neck. The man at the gates had dropped his bow and the others had to hold him back. “We should help them return to the Fade. They are very upset.”

* * *

“We work well together,” Hawke smiled again before lurching a quick fire spell over some corpses. The Fade stuck to Hawke too, his spells whispering and singing. He healed a bruise and the spirits helped, without him calling on them like a spirit healer would do. “Better not to run headfirst into any templars though.”

They almost ran into two Grey Wardens instead. Hawke had a lot of different feelings about Grey Wardens. There were Anders and Amell, the ones in Kirkwall during the Qunari attack, and the ones in Amaranthine he had only heard of. Then there were the ones led by Larius more than thirty years ago, blackmailing his father into performing blood magic. There was Loghain, bringing back memories of the fate Lothering had suffered. Then there was Larius again, like he had been at Corypheus’ prison, limping and tainted.

“We have to help,” Cole whispered, but Hawke was holding his wrist with one hand and Equinor’s reins with the other. The Wardens didn’t stay around much longer either. They had saved an elven woman from some undead, and they killed two more stragglers to help the village guards, but then they were on their way.

“We have to find Loghain before they do,” Hawke pulled back towards the coast and Cole hesitated. “We can kill whatever undead and demons we find on our way, before they get here, Cole. A mage wouldn’t be that welcome in a village under siege by the undead. Let alone Equinor.”

Maybe Hawke was right. They walked along the shore, leading Equinor and checking all the caves. Loghain wasn’t in any of them, but they found a dead mage in an abandoned camp. She had wanted to help the villagers, but someone had killed her before she even made it there. Hawke burned the body, then kept walking, feeling defeated for the first time since Cole had joined him.

“My father was taken to the Circle when he was eleven, you know?”

“No,” Cole frowned, confused. They hadn’t talked about Hawke’s father and the Circle.

“I mean… he knew something about life on the outside. Once he was out again, he made it, managed to blend in and make a living. Anders had been twelve,” Hawke smirked, “and he escaped from the Circle for the first time before he was thirteen. I was never in, of course, and it took me a long time to realize how difficult for them life outside could be. Those that the Circle didn’t kill, it crippled.”

“People like explaining about life on the outside to Ray. Solas likes telling him about the Fade.” Cole was always glad to listen in and have things explained to him as well. A lot of them still didn’t make sense, especially the ones about Orlesians.

“They treat him like the child heir to a throne suddenly empty,” Hawke shook his head. “Give him what he wants, tell him what _they_ want.”

“But gifts make people happy,” Cole felt for his hat, the brim heavy with water. Maybe he should have collected more feathers. “Ray likes Leliana’s gifts, and Baron Plucky likes the Chantry embroideries. They are always very bright and shiny. It is sad that they have to be burned.”

“I didn’t mean just gifts,” Hawke stopped abruptly. “Burned?”

“Yes,” Cole nodded, “Ray said it would be very inconsiderate of him to make the faithful wash raven droppings from them, so he cleans up after Baron Plucky himself. Taking care of an animal helps him relax.”

They had been talking in a low voice ever since they had arrived, but now Hawke giggled loudly, just like Sera would. Cole smiled as well. Baron Plucky wasn’t one for making people relaxed indeed. Hopefully he wouldn’t remember Cole’s attack on his home too well.

* * *

The cave they entered was the deepest yet and at the back an old table was covered with maps. The sea had flooded it many times before and turned the stones smooth and bright. Even a little fire made the floors and walls shine.

Hawke went to the table and then they both heard a sword being drawn.

“Warden Loghain Mac Tir, I assume? The Traitor Teyrn?” Hawke didn’t turn around. The Warden had already lowered his sword, looking at Hawke’s back quizzically.

“I’ve heard all the names, and yes, you would be correct,” Loghain’s hand relaxed. “You are not one of Clarel’s mages,” his eyes narrowed, “at least not yet. Who sends you?”

“Nathaniel Howe, first and foremost,” Hawke was still facing the other way, but turned around once the warrior had sheathed his sword. He nodded at Cole to step forth, and Loghain started for a second, his fingers ready to close around the sword’s handle once again. “These are Cole and his horse. Part of the Inquisition.”

“What is the Inquisition?” He was looking directly at Cole, and Cole was sure Hawke could explain better, but he still tried.

“I don’t understand it. People talk like it’s a person, but it’s not even a thing.” Loghain didn’t seem to understand any more than Cole did. He sighed. They should have brought Josephine with them. “It helps people, the good ones.”

“The Inquisition is after stopping Corypheus,” Hawke said curtly. “Which is why I need you to tell me about the blood ritual the Wardens are planning.”

Loghain took his eyes off Cole and Equinor to look at Hawke again.

“Howe is one thing, but you’re not a Warden. How do you know of him, he is one of the Wardens’ best kept secrets.”

“Maybe he would have stayed one if you people hadn’t tossed the keys to his prison in a cracked box.” Hawke’s voice was listless, but that was a lie. He looked at the ceiling. “As it was, his band of merry blighted dwarves came after me and my blood set him free.”

“You are the other Amell, then, the Champion” Loghain’s eyes widened. “Weisshaupt thought you dead in the rebellion. They did think Corypheus dead as well, true enough. So he has revealed himself?”

“You’ve been squatting here for a while, I take it.” Hawke frowned, looking around the cavern. It reminded Cole of the rooms under the White Spire, falling apart, water dripping down the stones. “More than a month ago, on the night the Breach was closed, Corypheus attacked a small village near the Temple of Sacred Ashes with a dragon and an army of templars.”

Loghain really didn’t know much of what had happened. He’d been close to Crestwood and about to cross into West Hill and then Highever when the Breach had opened. First there had been the demons, then the undead, and even with the Breach closed the villagers had abandoned the more remote houses and barricaded themselves in the village. The local highwaymen had been luckier and made themselves at home in Caer Bronach, the century old keep built to garrison soldiers in the fights against Orlais. Loghain had tried to make it past the rocky coastline and onto sea in abandoned fishermen’s boats, all of them on the bottom of the narrow gulf now.

“And just by the way, my name is Hawke. Not Amell, and certainly not the Champion,” Hawke concluded after telling in short about Corypheus, the Inquisition and about Ray.

“An odd name,” Loghain’s brow creased, “but it sounds familiar.”

“The one the Wardens made reinforce Corypheus’ bindings with blood magic was my father. He’d used his own blood, that’s why Corypheus needed mine… well, there was nobody else left alive by the time.” Hawke swallowed and added in a softer tone, “My brother Carver was with the king’s army at Ostagar.”

Loghain’s face opened and his features turned softer as well.

“Carver Hawke… barely eighteen, bright blue eyes and always trying to get into the front lines? I am…”

“That wasn’t the day the darkspawn claimed his life,” Hawke interrupted him sharply, then sighed, but with a sad smile on his face. “Nobody ever let him anywhere near the front lines, that saved his life.”

Hawke wished he had never let his brother into the front line either, nor Bethany. Cole remembered with dread how he had thought he was helping people by killing them. He knew he had been wrong, there and then. Occasionally he’d still feel it was the most painless way to save someone from suffering, but he held back. People had died in agony after Haven and even early on in Skyhold. Cole had watched how the healers had poured every bit of magic they had, every drop of lyrium, into healing Ray, but others had died when there had been little magic left, and no medical herbs to be found in the thick snow.

Later on, Ray had stopped him again, even after the healers had done all they could for a soldier. The soldier had stayed alive for nearly another day, the delirium brought on by pain and herbs nearly drowning every thought. Cole had ended up stealing some turnips and throwing them into the fireplace in the clinic. They smelled like home to the soldier, stronger than the pain, so he died thinking he’d gone home. Another was lying on his back, broken, unable to move his legs even the tiniest bit. His thoughts were of feeding bread to birds on the battlements of a Fereldan castle. Cole had taken some bread and gone to feed the birds himself, on the only part of Skyhold’s walls that were visible from the clinic’s window. It helped, a little. The servants complained, but Solas and Ray smiled.

There had been nobody to stop Hawke deep below the earth, nobody to help Carver in some other way. Just like there had been nothing left for the man who had only been real for a few seconds, in the Kirkwall Chantry.

“So, if the Wardens don’t even know about Corypheus being out, then why the blood ritual, why are you on the run at all?” Hawke’s thought had returned to the Wardens.

“I was investigating Corypheus’ death. Weisshaupt seemed too content to forget about everything, but Corypheus had been untouchable for centuries. His apparent death at your hands was worth looking into. I found evidence, but no proof. And then, soon after, every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling.”

Hawke stepped back, the simmering anger gone in an instant.

“I see you know what that means. They are panicked that there would be no one left to stop the Blights if the Wardens all die. My suspicion is that the Calling is thanks to Corypheus.”

“Why didn’t you write about _that_ to Howe,” Hawke’s voice fell to a whisper, “why didn’t he tell me?”

“Why would it concern you?”

“I have my reasons,” Hawke gritted his teeth.

* * *

Cole stepped into the back of the cave to find Hawke. Loghain didn’t need him. He was much like Hawke had been before they had arrived in Crestwood, his hurts resolved, the regrets realized.

Now Hawke was nothing like that, eyes lowered onto the box of feathers, one hand buried in them again. He had hoped that Amell would be able to find something, but now it seemed they were out of time. And if Amell herself was caught up with the Orlesian Wardens, then it was hopeless. Isabela would be so angry to have to carry him west rather than back to Rivain. Maybe she wouldn’t, and he’d wake up to find himself sailing past Amaranthine again.

“They would be happier if you returned. You would be happier, too.”

“Loghain can hear the Calling here,” Hawke knew that, but still he couldn’t do it. “If it’s spreading, then we can’t just sit and wait, we have to stop it. We thought we had years and we might not even have months.”

Loghain approached them and Cole heard echoes of the song. It was almost as if Hawke himself could hear it, the way it made him scared, just like the thought of it made Leliana scared.

“I may have less time than I thought. There are Wardens nearby, and if I can feel them, they, too, know I’m close.” 

“I will get rid of them,” Hawke stood up and picked his staff. “You need to stay hidden, but as close as you can.”

“They were sent to capture me, not kill me.” Loghain still cared about them, even if they were Orlesian. “They are just following orders, foolish as those may be.”

“You’d know about the kind of orders, wouldn’t you,” Hawke sneered and Loghain’s face darkened. Cole wasn’t sure even Varric could make the two calm. Hawke let go though, sighing. “I don’t plan on attacking them, not unless they do so first. I need you close so that they think I’m the Gray Warden they have sensed out.”

“You are a mage,” Loghain noted, “they will demand that you join them.”

“Don’t worry about that. They will feel less inclined to do so once they learn who I am.” Loghain didn’t understand and Hawke shrugged. “How long?”

“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes in this rain.”

* * *

They were the same two Wardens who’d fought the undead near Crestwood’s gates the day before. The younger archer held his arrow ready when Hawke appeared at the entrance to the cave, but the swordsman raised his hand in a greeting.

“Not the one we’ve been looking for.”

“Not one of our mages either,” the archer lowered his bow, “and he looks Fereldan. Perhaps he knows of the other.”

“Warden Jacquinot,” the swordsman nodded, “and this is Guilbert. We are looking for a Warden. Ser Loghain. He’s wanted for questioning.”

“Haven’t seen him in ten years,” Hawke said airily. “I don’t go to Warden parties any longer.”

The two Wardens were confused, as was Loghain, who gave Cole a questioning look from the other side of the cave opening. Cole couldn’t help now, even if Hawke was getting angrier and more distressed by the second. He didn’t want to be doing this, nor thinking of it.

“Brother,” the archer stepped forth and Hawke gripped the staff tighter, “why hasn’t your commander answered our call? Join us, Warden…?”

“Anders.”

The archer stepped back without meaning to. A tale of slaughter, of flesh torn and burnt in the woods of Amaranthine, flooded his mind. The older Warden had heard it too, from the mouth of one of the Wardens who had been sent back to Orlais when the Hero of Ferelden had returned to her arling.

“Lower your bow, Guilbert.”

Cole was about to lower his own dagger at the swordsman’s words, but the archer refused to follow the order, angry and scared.

“He is a murderer, a deserter and a stain on the Order’s name!” The tip of the arrow shook.

“Our orders are clear. If we can’t find Warden Loghain, we return to the commander with all haste. Lower your bow.”

It worked. The weapon was lowered and the two turned to leave without another word. Cole was lost. The lie had hurt everyone - Hawke still upset, Loghain unsettled as he was starting to suspect something, the Wardens scared. But it had helped everyone stay alive, too.

* * *

“You don’t want him to be scary. Not even Justice.”

Hawke was still standing in the rain in front of the cave, the two Wardens already hidden by the grey wall of water.

“It isn’t going to happen in our lifetime, Cole, not for us mortals at least. Maybe a hundred years from now. I will rather take what ten years can give us, and I’ll make damn sure we get those years.”

Hawke took Cole by the hand and guided him back to the shelter of the cave.

“Cole, I want you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“If you ever find yourself in a place where you cannot help, try to get out of there. Find somewhere else, find people with small hurts and help those instead.”

Cole shuddered. He’d been no use at the White Spire, he’d made things worse and had lost himself. His “benevolent chaos” at Skyhold, as Ray called it, made him happy.

“Is Justice healed after all the years in Kirkwall?”

“I don’t know,” Hawke shook his head. “I’d never met either of them when they were still separate, and it took me, it took Anders, a long time to understand how to talk to a spirit. You have some good people around you, talk to them.”

“But… I want to come with you.” Rhys hadn’t given Cole a goodbye speech, but he knew that was what Hawke was doing now.

“We are going to be in the desert, Cole, there aren’t a lot of people to help there.”

“I can help you! I can sit close and you would sleep well!” This time it was him who grabbed Hawke’s hand. “Please!”

“It isn’t safe for you, if the Wardens have taken up blood magic.” Hawke wanted him to come, like he wanted Anders and Justice to be there, but he wasn’t going to allow it. “I don’t want to see you bound and controlled, by mages or by Corypheus himself.”

“You need to stay safe, too,” Cole whispered and followed Hawke to give him one last night of good sleep.


	29. Chapter 29

_24 Firstfall, 9:41_

“She can barely trot without needing grain and milk,” Dennet sneered as Dorian led the horse out. “Watch her freeze before she leaves the Frostbacks.”

“Then grain and milk she shall receive.”

Dorian had taken to the Tevinter breed and decided they should stick together. Perhaps it had even been Felix’s. The Inquisition had apparently thought better than leaving the mare to Arl Teagan, and the horse had made it out of Haven, so not quite the spoiled princess Dennet thought her.

“Your Worship!” Dennet stepped past Dorian as if they hadn’t just been talking. “Your horse is ready.” 

Dorian turned to ask what this was about, but the question died on his lips as he saw Ray. “Damn barbarians” was the first thought that flew through his head, though it was out before he could hold onto it.

Ray was wearing high boots folded at the knees, thighs free of the long coat they usually donned on him when he’d venture outside of Skyhold. The jacket was leather as well, rich green showing through the slits on a sleeve. A sash of the same green fabric was around his waist under the belt that followed, and yet more of it on the cloak, which ended on a wide patch of fur going around his shoulders, held together by a brooch he thought a real flower at first. To top it off, literally, some sort of leather beret followed, complete with a handful of black feathers and a single green-golden one.

His right elbow was out, arm covered in an additional piece of leather, into which Baron Plucky had sank his claws, staring morosely at the world around him. All in all, Ray looked like some kind of prince of the foresters, or would have, if it weren’t for the staff on his back, made out of two intertwined dragons, a fiery enchantment floating between their opened jaws.

He looked good, Dorian realized, in a way he hadn’t seen him in a while. The clothes fit him well, but beyond that there was a small smile on his face, his cheeks were flushed, eyes shining. The smile grew wider when their eyes met, and Dorian’s throat went dry. Damn barbarians.

The reverie lasted until Dennet led a horse to Ray’s side. If it weren’t for the horse’s black mane and tail, Dorian wouldn’t have been sure it had been a black horse originally, or a white one. Its body seemed to be covered in some sort of dye, jagged black on white, or the other way around, the whole of it looking like cracked stone.

“There is not another man in Thedas whose tragic taste in horses surpasses yours.” Dorian stepped closer as Ray fastened a leather bag, likely papers, to the saddle. “Where is your more horrendous horse?”

“Cole has Equinor,” Ray absolutely giggled, “two spirits on a bummel. Amund brought this one as a gift to my hold. The dried mud is something special the Avvar have for keeping warm.”

“Fierce, loyal, and not quite tame, just the way the Avvar prefer.” Dennet nodded. “Don’t let her ride off with it, Your Worship.”

He handed Ray a letter and a pouch of coin, which got stuffed on the other side of the saddle. Ray said something to Dennet that got drowned in a hoarse croak by Baron Plucky, the raven perching on a plank and entirely too close for comfort to Dorian’s head now.

“He’s very happy to be traveling with one as shiny as you,” Ray smirked, then turned to Dennet again. “I’ll make sure they are well supplied for the winter. You don’t have to always stay at Skyhold, you know.”

“I have my hands happily full with all the rare breeds you’re getting, Inquisitor. But I’ll travel back for First Day, as one should.”

A sharp whistle brought Ray’s eyes to the gates of the keep, and Dorian saw the little nod Ray gave. Four Inquisition scouts mounted their horses as one and galloped out.

For a moment Ray seemed in possession of quite a bit of finesse as he skilfully mounted the horse himself, and it was all gone the moment he was sitting, no matter how straight and magnificent, on a horse covered in mud.

Dorian followed and the two rode across the courtyard and to the gates.

“What was that about?” Dorian nodded in Dennet’s direction.

“I thought we could stop at their farm for the night, so he asked me to bring them some money. He suspects his daughter might not let Agrarr here get enough rest.”

“We are not taking a boat, then?”

“You don’t like boats,” Ray pointed out.

“You do,” Dorian countered, already feeling better about the journey to come.

“I like this too,” Ray said with yet another smile. “Just being out, not on Inquisition business.”

“Not to mention in most excellent company,” Dorian prompted.

“That too.”

The smile Ray gave him was so cheeky and self-satisfied, for a moment Dorian thought he had the wrong person.

* * *

Much unlike Dorian’s own experience with real lonesome hikes through hilly Ferelden, somewhere around the early afternoon a scout led them to a campfire where some fish was getting grilled and a thick woolen blanket was spread, more food laid in the middle of it. Regrettably, there was no wine. 

An almost vertical rock to the side blocked the slight wind and a few steps away was a small spring. Its water was ice-cold, Dorian found out, when Ray all but ran to it to wash his hands, and once that was over with, gleefully started sprinkling water at Dorian. He had more dignity than a six-years-old, so he slowly walked to the spring and knelt next to Ray, taking off his gloves. Ray didn’t wait for him to feel the freezing water and scooped some instead, pouring it over his outstretched hands. It was warm.

“You can do that,” Ray smirked, “and nobody even has to know.”

“You are still dipping your hands into it though,” Dorian hummed as another scoop followed. “But I’ll gladly have you as my very personal water bearer. May we survive this trip through nature.”

“I don’t need to dip my hands,” the next scoop sprang right from the water’s surface and onto his hands without as much as Ray moving a finger.

“Can you catch some fish as well?” Dorian turned his head to look at the arranged picnic scene behind them.

This time Ray grabbed the staff that was lying next to him and gestured for Dorian to move back. He did so, wordlessly, and for a few seconds Ray didn’t say anything either, looking intently into the water.

“Watch,” he prompted and Dorian tried to guess what he was watching for, the water rushing over the spotted stones below, no solid shapes to be made out. He felt the magic more than he saw what was happening, and a second later a vaguely fish-shaped chunk of ice floated up, then toward them, and dropped on the ground. There was indeed a fish inside of it.

“Not bad,” Dorian admitted.

“It’s pretty hard when the water is moving so fast.” Ray grabbed the frozen fish with a victorious grin and shook it, water sloshing. The fish started twisting and flopping in his hand and he threw it back into the water. “I wouldn’t have minded, I think, living like that. Maybe moving around, like the Dalish.”

“I’m all for giving Solas a fit,” Dorian noted dryly, “but then we’d be wearing glorified rags and smell of Ferelden. We’d barely have any books and there would be no sugar to be found for miles around us. Let’s try to stay civilized, it’s already enough of a challenge here.”

Dorian knew the look Ray was giving him, or rather not giving him, eyes stuck somewhere to the right. It wasn’t the most severe of disappointments at Dorian’s lack of enthusiasm, but it was something. Pouting. What a strange existence his was, swinging between delighting in luxury one moment, and exile into primitive wilderness the next. 

“The fishing was impressive,” Dorian said at last. “What is that staff, I’ve never seen one quite like it, now that I look at it closely.”

“It’s Tyddra’s! Maybe. The legendary Avvar Chieftain? Maybe she was a mage!”

Dorian shook his head as he was subjected to a few pieces of a poem, which flowed into more chatter about Amund, spirits, mages and the Avvar, until his head spun, only somewhat from hunger. They did eat, eventually, after which more magic followed, this time Dorian’s hexes. It wasn’t something he could imagine enjoyable. Ray, however, insisted on the necessity of getting one’s entertainment where one could find it, stared at Dorian in horror as he stood in the middle of a hex, then laughed like it had been the grandest theatrical performance. Baron Plucky had descended to feast on their food and wisely stayed away from the whole area the hexes covered.

Dusk had turned into night by the time they arrived at Dennet’s farm. Dorian had gotten more pensive, as if only now really recalling what this trip was about. The conversations had dropped to almost nothing with Ray nodding off. Dorian had thought Ray would be coming out of the room Dennet’s wife had prepared for them for that drink that was waiting for him. He never did and finally Dorian emptied the glass himself. When he did turn in, at last, Ray was fast asleep, clothes neatly arranged on a chair and a gloveless hand hanging from the edge of the bed, faint green light coming from it and falling on famed Tyddra’s staff on the floor.

* * *

_25 Firstfall, 9:41_

The Grand Forest Villa had been abandoned during the Fifth Blight, then taken over by bandits before it had been taken over by the Inquisition. Maybe it had once made a presentable summer house for noble guests, especially in the summer. Now mostly the stone remained, with bare-bones wooden constructions sticking out of it. Windows had been replaced here and there, but there wasn’t much to work with. It housed some of the displaced refugees and a few Inquisition agents. Dorian had only mutely nodded when Ray had asked if he minded a little detour, and now he was standing at the edge of the shallow lake, the ground around it stiff, the surface of the water frosted. A mage was crossing the bridge and lighting torches stuck into long metal pylons some feet away from the wooden bridge, the last one just far enough from Dorian to be mostly useless against the settling dusk.

He startled when the area was suddenly flooded with white light, then saw a wisp bob and sway around Ray.

“Thank you for bringing me out there. It wasn’t what I expected, but… it’s something.”

It hadn’t been enough, and perhaps it would never be. His father had apologized, said he understood why Dorian had ran. That he understood why Dorian didn’t want that life. But he hadn’t admitted to it being wrong, and not the best for his son. Dorian wondered if that was something his father understood at all. He’d left the tavern and his father more heartbroken and humiliated than he thought possible, spending the next hour staring blankly at the boats in the harbor while Ray waited for a raven from Leliana.

“What your father did was wrong.”

“I think he knows that. It’s just hard for him to admit. But it was good that we talked. I just wish I knew whether that was a start… or an end. I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

“You don’t have to forgive him.” Ray gestured for the wisp to float further over the lake and approached. He looked troubled, and Dorian supposed he knew something about how that felt.

“Did you forgive your parents?” Ray got letters, that much Dorian knew. He wrote some, as well, but he hadn’t talked about his family after that first time.

“It’s just my mother, really, and… I don’t know. As far as working together goes, yes. It’s been years since I’ve felt much more toward her, I think, so it just… stopped hurting.”

Just thinking of that made Dorian hurt. He missed home, missed even his parents, and the hurt of that seemed far preferable to that of losing those connections.

”It is good that you still care. When this is over maybe you will have a place to return to.”

The smile Ray gave him was nothing like the beaming grins from the previous day. It was small, soft and understanding, and so adult, that Dorian found himself staring and wondering. _Who did you use to be, before? Who would you have been if your life had been different?_

“I am glad you are not leaving now,” Ray finished and Dorian faltered.

“After that whole display? Maker knows what you must think of me now.” All the facades fallen, the truth bared. 

“I don’t think less of you.” Ray took a step closer and Dorian mirrored his movement. “More, if possible.”

Ray’s voice cracked at that, his face flushed. He looked such an elaborate mix between hopeful, hesitant and scared that Dorian forgot all about mixed signals and leaned just a little bit further.

“The things you say,” he muttered as this time it was Ray following his movement. For a split second the panic returned when their foreheads nearly touched and it felt like that would be it, that Ray would be coming to his senses and pulling back.

He hadn’t shaken all of it out and lost track of time. It felt like a single moment when Ray raised his hands and let them slide down from Dorian shoulders, feather-light, angled his head to press an almost as light as that kiss to his lips and then suddenly huffed a breathless laugh. The panic rose again.

“I’ve never kissed someone with a mustache before,” the most ridiculous conspiratorial whisper came out.

Dorian fought against losing his mind amidst all the chaos in his head. He sneaked a hand into Ray’s hair, the angle right, and pressed their lips together again, just a little bit firmer. Ray didn’t pull away, his own hands dropping to Dorian’s waist . Another second apart was all Dorian allowed as Ray’s eyes fluttered closed, and then he let go of the hair and wrapped his hand around Ray’s waist, pulling him closer and pressing back into another kiss.

The hands on his waist squeezed, then relaxed. Ray’s lips parted with a muffled gasp and Dorian deepened the kiss. At this very moment he was expecting, hoping for more. He wanted it to be more, but then the moment was over and he started regaining his senses. He didn’t want the averted eyes and the awkwardness that came after. For all the frustration that would put him through, he wanted to stay close to Ray. Even if it would need to be just a little bit farther.

“I see you enjoy playing with fire, Inquisitor.”

Had he just told that to a mage? The wondrous look Ray was giving him slipped into confusion, and then right away into a wholly indulgent smile. His cheeks were still flushed as he stepped back and said, in a voice thicker than usual, “They have prepared a room for us at the villa.”

* * *

They obviously weren’t staying incognito to the people in charge. Despite the low ceiling, the room was spacious, with the fireplace decently well-preserved. The flames had only recently been fed some logs, too, bark still barely charred. 

“They must have cleared out at least two families out of this room to give it to us, let’s at least put it to good use.”

Dorian threw his staff on one of the beds. It smelled clean, but of the cleanliness of rough lard soap. Really, the room had little but its size and the fire going for it. The walls were bare stone, halfway covered in moss. The floor near them was blackened, not long ago scrubbed clean from the mold that had been growing there.

Ray kept his smile, obviously happy enough with the lodgings. His eyes were on the low table near the fireplace. The dinner would be a match for the room. None of that fresh fish and picnic basket from before. Some bread, as much cheese as could possibly go down with it, two measly pears. A jug of water and two wooden bowls to go with it. Instead of a main dish, a shallow basin filled with water stood in the middle of the table, the stems of a dozen flowers dipped into it while the large petals took up the space above them. They were the same flowers like the brooch Ray had been wearing on his chest for the past two days.

“It’s Andraste’s Grace,” Ray said unprompted, having caught Dorian’s look. “It likes the cold. Not a hothouse orchid,” his tone turned teasing, citing Mae’s letter, and he took a step toward Dorian. Dorian took a step back, preserving the distance, and Ray stood still, eyes eventually shifting back to the table. “The lake outside is mostly for decoration, not much fishing to be done. We are getting a trading route through the Frostbacks ready though, there will be more supplies here, soon. Before winter comes for real.”

“It’s cheese tonight, then. A few more months and I’ll turn Fereldan.” Dorian forced a smile. “As usual there is no wine. Though at least there’s no ale either, thank the Maker for small mercies. Didn’t think you’d like going around wearing something of Andraste’s.”

“Leliana gave it to me.” Ray walked to a window to open it. Baron Plucky flew in, amazingly willingly. “It had been a present from Amell. The Baron was hers as well.”

“Oh,” Dorian muttered as Ray knelt and took out the dwarven enchanted toys. For a moment he saw Leliana, defeated in that half tent in the middle of nowhere. In the next instant he was looking back at Ray, being childish again, beaming as the raven finally showed some interest in playing. He made himself look away at last, into the fire.

Their little trip would be over soon, back to Skyhold or to whatever place needed rescuing, all over again. Back to Ray being the Herald, the Inquisitor, the singular point into which powers these days focused - magical, political, religious. It had been hard enough when power and looks had made up for most of the attraction. Harder when Ray had started to emerge as the person he was. Even harder now that Dorian’s disguise had fallen. He knew how to act under that disguise, he would have been able to deal with anything Ray could throw at him. It wasn’t fair that Ray had only pushed through once Dorian’s defenses were down.

That Dorian hadn’t shared a kiss in years, and now he was disappointed and relieved in equal measure. The kisses in adolescence had been like Ray’s, soft and undemanding, able to stand on their own without the immediate need for more. But eventually that “more” had happened, turned out to be less, and the old innocent hopefulness had been gone forever. He had his defenses, and they had cost him. He didn’t want to have to build them up from scratch again.

The flapping of wings had stopped when Dorian tore his eyes from the fire and looked at the window. The raven stood there surrounded by the scattered jewels, but Ray was gone. How long had he been lost in thoughts?

The door creaked and let Ray through, his face the type of sad and pensive Dorian remembered from before they’d left Skyhold. He should have tangled his fingers in Ray’s hair on that picnic blanket, kissed him there and then, while he’d still been his usual self, while Ray had been happy and free, catching fish the most amazing thing in the world.

“Are you all right?”

“No. Not really.” Time started moving again and Dorian took in more than just Ray’s expression. Such as the necks of two bottles between the fingers of one hand and two goblets in the other.

“See, that’s why you’re useful, they’d never give those to me.” He swiftly relieved him of the bottles. There was no label. “Joy of joys, we have some swill of a wine. Nevermind, time to drink myself into a stupor. It’s been that sort of day.” Dorian popped the cork with a touch of mana, which, much as expected, got him a smile from Ray. “Join me, if you’ve a mind.”

“You shouldn’t get too drunk though, we have to ride back in the morning.”

“Goes to show you’ve never seen me get drunk,” Dorian scoffed. “It will take considerably more than two bottles to make me unable to ride. And you must have some, too. Loosens the tongue, so to speak. If the wine is terrible, you have to suffer a bit as well.” He didn’t want to drink alone, with his father’s words echoing in his head. 

“It can’t be that bad, can it?” Ray held out the goblets for Dorian to fill them.

“True, I suppose. I could have been an Anders vintage.” Dorian took his wine, and walked to the fireplace to sit near the table. He waited for Ray to join him, then raised the goblet, same old toast. “To parents.”

Ray returned the toast almost inaudibly, then drank.

“It’s horrible,” he squeezed his eyes, nose wrinkled. Dorian laughed, took a sip himself, swallowed with some difficulty, and laughed again.

“You nearly had me there, displaying some taste in wine. But this wine is truly atrocious. Fits the toast, I suppose.”

* * *

Ray’s features had gone soft and unfocused after the second goblet. He’d followed Dorian’s urging to drink quickly and quite obviously couldn’t hold his drink. Dorian was tipsy enough not to care about Leliana’s warning. He was enjoying watching Ray lazily feed chunks of cheese to Baron Plucky. The raven even seemed to enjoy working for it, for each chunk was floated and tossed around for the bird to catch rather than simply being thrown to the floor. Maybe it was the brooch.

The silence wasn’t as bad as Dorian had feared. He kept busy, imagining the two of them in a much better furnished room, a few more pillows to lean against at the very least.

“Dorian,” Ray’s voice wasn’t as affected by the drink as Dorian had expected, “why are you an only child?”

“I suppose my parents despised each other enough to never want to procure another heir. Terribly short-sighted of them.”

It was just another reason why everything to do with Alexius hurt so much. Married for love, cherished the only child he had, a child with barely any magic. Had wanted him happy, before everything had gone wrong. Next to that his own father…

“Couldn’t you just marry, then, and stop carrying after that?”

“No.” Dorian closed his eyes and slowly exhaled. “Living a lie… it festers inside of you, like poison. You have to fight for what’s in your heart.”

“Oh…” Ray leaned to look into his goblet, empty as it was. Dorian’s hand wasn’t entirely steady as he poured the last drops from the first bottle. “I agree. I think you’re very brave.”

He could say the most ridiculous things. Dorian’s heart fluttered as he uncorked the second bottle.

“So you’ve… never been with a woman? Or wanted to?”

Dorian had regained enough of his composure to have the sharp reply ready to fire. He probably would have, if he hadn’t been through similar with Cole often enough.

“Not to my recollection. Don’t get me wrong, they’re wonderful. They’re just… not for me. That’s not so beyond belief, is it?”

“No, it isn’t,” Ray’s entire focus was on the goblet being filled. “Were you and Felix…?”

Dorian pulled the bottle away to put it down before he spilled wine all over the table. There was only so much he could get through with mindful breathing.

“Felix and I? What an odd question. No, I had no intention of abusing Alexius’ hospitality by seducing his son. Not that I’ve been proper my whole life, by any means. It wasn’t like that.”

Another carefully measured exhale. Ray wasn’t asking that question like Dorian’s father would have asked it.

“He was a friend, a fine young man.” Somehow Ray still didn’t look anywhere close to understanding of the circumstances, so Dorian twisted the topic. “You didn’t have to marry off, I take it?”

“Nobody wants to marry a mage, least of all nobles.” Ray readily downed half of the wine. “My mother was actually going to get permission from the Chantry for me to marry.” His tone was light and unconcerned, but Dorian winced on the inside. True, a disagreeable wedding could get you shunned or even killed as a noble in Tevinter, so few dared to do it. But an actual permission was only needed by slaves. “It just doesn’t hold much meaning. And there is no name to carry, plus the Chantry takes all babies anyway. I don’t know how there are any mages left, to be honest. That part of the bloodline preferably meets a dead end.”

“And they call us barbarians.” The South was doing its own breeding program, just to the opposite effect. “What if you hadn’t been a mage?”

“Well,” Ray shrugged. “I’m a fourth child, so there wouldn’t have been pressure, unless they’d found someone really useful to have in the family. I imagine it was different for my firstborn sister, or even my eldest brother. They are both married, with a satisfactory number of heirs… I never really asked if they had wanted it.”

“And they married into nicely mage-free families?”

“They probably didn’t marry into the best mage-free families, with me muddying up the landscape.” Ray sighed. “I had expectations placed on me, and I hated them. My mother schemed and pushed for me to be a prominent mage, if I were to be a mage. I had more choices and opportunities than any other mage I knew. I would have probably squandered them all were it not for the circumstances.”

“See, now would be the time for me to note that we have that in common, but you happen to be the most prominent mage in the south at the moment.”

“And I have never been in better standing with my family,” Ray laughed. “I even got my birthright back, a bona fide noble after twenty years. True, the expectations have grown as well.”

Dorian wondered if buying back his birthright pendant was worth the money and the trouble. He had assumed he’d been disowned by his father, and nothing had been mentioned at the Redcliffe tavern to either confirm or disprove this. At any rate, it would take a while to collect the money to match the price Ponchard would demand. The stipend he got from the Inquisition was decent, but once Skyhold had began to establish itself, luxury goods had become available. Not smelling of wet dog held more allure at the moment.

“What about marriage now? Many would welcome the Herald of Andraste, even if he happens to be a mage. Your mother can’t possibly be missing on all the opportunities.”

“Not going to happen,” Ray rolled his eyes. “I outrank her now. But even before that… she really only offered, she didn’t…” Ray laughed when Baron Plucky flew to the table, tired of waiting for more cheese games, then abruptly stopped. “What exactly did your father do?”

“He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me… acceptable. I found out. I left.” Whether it could have even worked Dorian didn’t know. Maybe it would have left him a drooling vegetable, and it crushed him to think that his father had considered the absurd risk preferable to scandal. “Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside.”

Ray was looking at him with more dread than all of the hexes combined had caused.

“I… I thought he’d meant to make you say yes… short term. And then you’d fought it with a counter-spell.” He rose to his knees, hands on the table, and leaned over it. “Forget about him. Stay here, even if it’s awful and cold. I’ll get Josephine to give you a better room, and ask for fire runes and candied fruit. We can get even more books, and Skyhold is ours.”

Dorian mustered a smile. Ray had that peculiar way of dealing with problems, just will them to sit and wait and not be a problem. At least for as long as his holy reign was going on. He was glorious, looming over the table, eyes burning and face flushed, his shirt slightly skewed. It was seductive beyond anything Dorian had been through, and he’d been through a lot of seduction, all the way from the slums to the Fade. He rose from the table, bent forward to cup Ray’s face in both hands.

“You’re far craftier than any desire demon,” Dorian whispered before dipping lower and quite helplessly going in for another kiss. 

It was sloppier and more daring the the one before, the languid slide of their tongues interrupted by a brief pecks. Dorian finally left Ray’s lips to start a trail of kisses along his jawline and neck, and was rewarded with a groan, head readily tilting further to the side to offer Dorian more room.

His mind was screaming for more as his body started complaining about the awkward pose. Ray’s hands had wandered to his shoulders, light at first, but now the other mage had lost control and was merely clinging to Dorian and pulling him down. The crick in his neck was getting more pronounced as well, and Dorian finally lifted himself with a sigh and tried to gently dislodge the fingers from his shoulders.

The look Ray gave him was so dazed and unfocused, that instead of letting go, Dorian pulled at Ray’s elbows to get him to stand up as well. At least he appeared to be able to stand on his feet without swaying.

“You’re drunk,” Dorian murmured. A hum, more satisfied than affirmative, was the only response as Ray started learning forward again. “I didn’t sign up to be the responsible one, you know. Come.”

Ray followed him without protest to one of the beds to sit down and busy himself with unbuttoning his vest and unlatching his boots. Dorian stood there, the epitome of self-control, until Ray gave him a look that would have neared questioning if the daze wasn’t rendering it simply confused.

Dorian went back to the table, drank the rest of the wine in Ray’s goblet, then filled it with water.

“Drink.”

Ray let go of unlacing his trousers and drank up the water, then a refill. He handed the goblet back to Dorian and spoke for the first time in a long while.

“Don’t you want this?”

“I’ll let you know tomorrow if you’re still interested. Now get some sleep.”

He didn’t wait for Ray to finish undressing, went back to the table to pick the remaining bottle of wine and made for the door.

“Where…?”

“I need some time alone. You are the most ridiculous drunk. Don’t self-medicate your hangover, orders by Leliana.”

He needed to get drunk in preparation for that tomorrow.

* * *

_26 Firstfall, 9:41_

Loud knocking woke Dorian up and he sat up, taking in the empty bed nearby and the bright sunlight flooding the room. The second realization was that the wine had been the worst, indeed, as the taste in his mouth and the dull thudding of his head indicated. The third - that the knocking wasn’t coming from the door, but from somewhere behind his back.

He turned around and the headache got worse as he witnessed Baron Plucky giving a window a few jabs with his beak.

“Vishante kaffas, you’re one nasty bird,” Dorian slipped his feet to the floor, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. The small table in front of the now cold fireplace had met the raven’s fury. What had been left of the bread and cheese was now in small pieces, on the table and all over on the floor around it. Dorian carefully lifted two sheets of paper, drawings of the villa and of the flowers. The ink had run where they’d been sprayed with water from the basin, then had dried with a few breadcrumbs stuck to the paper. The flowers themselves were scattered together with the food, a single stem still dipped in the mostly empty basin. Baron Plucky had seemingly waited for Ray to leave to go on a rampage.

Dorian went to the window and it was good fortune that the frames were rusty and fit badly together. As he rattled it open, he looked down to see where it was stuck, and only then saw one of his costume’s silver decorative snakes in the Baron’s claws.

“Give that back, you thieving pest,” he snatched the ornament, and faced little resistance and little acknowledgment. Baron Plucky spared him a second’s look, then turned his head to knock on the window again. Once that creaked open, he flew off with one of his croaks.

Dorian cursed as he got dressed, briefly wondering whether he ought to remove from the other sleeve the matching snake. Outside of the door a single of Leliana’s people was waiting.

“The Inquisitor went to deal with a small rift to the south, and some grave?” The scout gave him a questioning look, obviously expecting Dorian to know more about that. He didn’t so he just shrugged. “Closing the rift will attract some attention, so we are to leave before that and intercept the rest on the way back. You should probably have your breakfast.”

Images of Baron Plucky’s breakfast emerged in Dorian’s mind and the lurking hangover crept closer.

“I’ll pass. Why didn’t anyone wake me up for the rift?”

The scout’s mouth went down as his eyebrows went up, in an expression of complete lack of caring. Dorian waved him off, gathered the rest of his things and went around the villa in search for a bath. Luckily, there was one, with a stone tub no less, even if there were old bloodstains all over the room. He hadn’t expected better from the Fereldan bandits that had occupied the villa.

* * *

“You dragged that poor mage with you just so she could relieve my headache?”

The thin elven mage was being carried off back to the villa by one of the scouts, but she had been sitting in front of Ray on the muddy horse when Dorian had first met them, both talking and smiling. Dorian had never envied an elf. He had remained calm, a night’s sleep having left him rested enough to be in charge of his emotions again. If last night’s events were to be forgotten, he’d be ready for it.

To the mage’s credit, she had jumped off the horse unprompted, given a friendly smile, then removed all the lingering effects of the terrible wine with a flick of a finger. She’d taken her leave without the pomp and circumstance Dorian occasionally witnessed when he happened upon them in the main hall of Skyhold. A true apostate, Dorian had later gathered, one that had spent her life in the Korcari Wilds rather than a Circle.

“She is a healer, helped at the rift and against the bandits.”

“Bandits? Also a rift and whatever grave the scout meant? You could have woken me up.”

“You looked comfortable sleeping,” Ray hesitated, “it was a simple matter. The grave was of the wife of a Redcliffe elf, I promised him I’d clean it up again and put some flowers. He’d tried to do it himself, but then the bandits had been around.”

“Maybe you should be a necromancer, the way you smile at the thought of graves.”

The wistful smile turned into a smirk and then into laughter.

“I’ve raised one, you know. Someone had missed their grandfather so much, they’d more or less left the last step of the ritual waiting.”

Dorian had a good laugh at some further Fereldan stupidity, but at least that explained why Equinor only got as far as unsettling to them.

They had entered the newly uncovered road through the Frostbacks and one had to admit the Avvar horse was faring better than the Tevinter mare. Ray cast a warming barrier around both horse and her rider before it had even occurred to Dorian. It felt good, it just reminded him too much of those fire runes mentioned the night before, and of everything else along with that.

This time, when they stopped for lunch, the picnic blanket was a lot more modest in its offerings. The small valley to the side of the road was covered in ferns, and despite the spring nearby, Ray ran off after a hare rather than fishing. Dorian ended up watching in morbid fascination and disgust as he skinned the fluffy beast, not unskillfully. His tolerance hit its limits once Baron Plucky descended upon the innards, and he went for a walk. 

He didn’t know what got into him, but he returned with all nine Andraste’s Grace flowers he’d come across. Ray didn’t seem disturbed by a reminder of the night before, nor was he disturbed when he heard about how Baron Plucky had left the place. He did apologize about forgetting to open a window, but trapped as the Baron might have felt, it might have saved Dorian one of his silverite snakes. Baron Plucky got the last piece of grilled hare for the tenacity of removing the adornment from the leather and for the boldness of trying to make away with it with the owner present. The soft smile from last night was on Ray’s lips again, and Dorian had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

The scouts who had ridden behind showed up and took care of tidying away the remains of their meal, mercifully including the hare’s pelt. The bread wasn’t going to be good for much. Not that it had been great to start with, but one too many ravens had had his way with it. Dorian picked it up while Ray was writing some notes and went to the sit next to the spring and toss bread to the fish. He couldn’t see any, but something was going to eat it, eventually.

He startled when something was put on his head and his eyes snapped up to meet Ray’s. The undiluted affection and satisfaction in them left him speechless and all he could do for the moment was raise a hand to feel around his hair. A flower wreath, the Andraste’s Grace. Instinctively he leaned over the water, looking for a reflective surface, and Ray chuckled.

“It looks good on you.” He’d shifted close, almost close enough to kiss, but he wasn’t breaking the last few inches.

Dorian blinked a few times, furiously, then braved the distance. The kiss was heady, Ray’s breath still soft against his lips, but the movements less hesitant. They parted lips twice, only to shift the angle and resume, and by the end of what must have been half a minute at most, Dorian’s head was spinning.

“Everything looks good on me,” he whispered, then smiled when Ray simply nodded. “Does the Inquisitor have a type, I wonder.”

“A type?”

“The ones who catch your eye? Like educated and charming northerners? Though I can’t imagine there having been many of those in the Ostwick Circle.”

“No,” the laugh wasn’t forced but came out breathless. “There was a pale Ferelden Dalish girl of fifteen, a decade ago. She didn’t have anything like formal education.”

Dorian dropped his hands from Ray’s hair as if burned.

“Elonna? The one at the Conclave? I… I hadn’t realized…”

“It wasn’t like that.” The brief flick of confusion in Ray’s eyes fled, leaving only melancholy in its stead. “It’s just… the Ostwick Circle was pretty static, I’d grown up with most of the people around my age. There wasn’t much of this eye catching going on. Elonna was the exception, but this wasn’t her thing.”

“This? Humans? Men?”

“Just… any of it? We kissed once, it wasn’t her thing.”

“Oh. I’ve never met anyone like that.” He paused for a few moments to let the topic of dead friends ebb away.

“So, was that letting me know?”

That answered the question of whether Ray remembered last night. Maker only knew how many lectures he’d have to put up with on account of stealing the Inquisitor’s soul.

* * *

_29 Firstfall, 9:41_

The kisses had continued, publicly still confined to speculation. Ray had a particular talent for knowing which corner of bookshelves was visible from which angle. Dorian didn’t enjoy thinking over how the kind of skill had gotten honed, partly because he himself wasn’t bad at it.

So, the kisses had continued. Occasionally deeper, and occasionally with bodies pressed together close enough for Dorian to perfectly discern desire.

Yet nothing more had followed. The opportunities had been there. The round library was still mostly unbreached, and Ray had stolen a kiss there, too, only to end it at that. He had shown him into the room under his quarters, with the crates of books from Tevinter. They hadn’t been a gift like the library, but this morning there had been a chest with wine, proper wine, and it couldn’t have been for anyone else but him.

Still, even without more happening, the volume of the whispers had risen substantially.

Leliana, of course, knew, as she gave him the odd look that was hard to read. Her scouts had probably seen something even before they had returned to Skyhold.

Sera, too, knew. She had given no odd looks, just loud giggles with the occasional rude gesture. Dorian hoped that didn’t mean that all the servants knew.

Cassandra had thrown a few critical glances, but gone no further. Mother Giselle regarded him as if she fully bought the bit about magisters eating babies.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Pavus,” Dorian flipped through the first crate of books. He knew most of them, could remember where their place had been in Alexius’ library.

He couldn’t have any demands in this. He didn’t know how it could go, and perhaps he didn’t want to. Stalling meant more of this false, loud secrecy, but it also meant more of the kisses and the amazingly soft and self-satisfied looks that lingered. Getting to more… well, it would get him more, but also bring it closer to an ending. With the way Ray looked at him though, things would be blown in the clear sooner rather than later, and then it would need to end just as quickly. Should he push or should he put some distance?

In retrospect he had asked that question to the worst person possible, Ray.

“Dreadful business, that Crestwood, I hear. More rain, more undead. Is there nothing else to Ferelden?”

He could apparently get away with anything, as far as Ray was concerned. The right to stay warm and dry, to browse through probably banned in the South books and sip expensive Antivan wine, had been freely granted.

At least he could get drunk, and not poisoned, this time.


	30. Chapter 30

_30 Firstfall, 9:41_

Sera woke up alone on a wide bench in the Undercroft. She’d been banned from here, for a while, because Harritt was calling the shots, but not as much as he would’ve liked to. Couldn’t have banned the Herald, even though those had been mostly his bees. Now Harritt had bigger worries.

She giggled and curled up under the warm blanket. The bench was still hard though, that was the big problem when she was all boney. She opened one eye. Bright enough for her to see, but that didn’t mean much. Still too early, Sera concluded, and tried to go back to sleep. Not the easiest thing, what with that waterfall going on and on. Reluctantly, she uncurled and stretched, a foot darting out from under the blanket. Piss, it was cold. Her nose was cold, she could tell now, her ears too. Sera scrambled up and slipped into her shoes.

“Brr.” Shoes as cold as everything else, she grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around herself. “Oh. Oh!”

She had no idea where Dagna’s quarters were, to give the enchanted blanket back. Or maybe to ask to keep it. Take that, feeble warming barrier!

Sera sneaked out, quiet as the corridor was quiet, but there was some life in the main hall when she made it there. The dishes from last night were only now being carted away, the tables cleaned. People yawned and it made her yawn as well, not to mention the smell of the remains from dinner making her stomach growl. She could grab something, but all the good pieces had been taken at dinner, or soon after, by those who hadn’t been invited.

She had been invited, and she’d eaten all she could, so now people wouldn’t be happy with her taking more.

It was perfect then, when a boy passed her, carrying “milady Josie” her breakfast, tray all silvery, with the little cup and jug. Sera shifted her book under her arm and stepped in front of him.

“Right, I’ll take that.” It smelled divine. The thinly sliced ham, the soft eggs… no cake though. Maybe she really was giving them to “allies”. The boy held onto the tray, so Sera put up her most convincing face. “I’m bringing them to his holy Heraldness!”

“But it’s the Lady Ambassador’s! His Worship isn’t coming down so early today.”

“Change of plans,” the boy’s fingers loosened. Anyway, nobody got in trouble with Josephine over food. “Just fetch her another.”

Sera marched to the door of the tower. The laboratory, or whatever fancy name the room was going by, would be a perfect place to have breakfast, and so she made her way to the second topmost floor.

“Sera?” One of Leliana’s people emerged from an alcove just in front of the laboratory, holding his hand of cards. “Stay still, there’s a paralysis glyph ahead.”

Sera grumbled. Now she’d really need to bring the food into Ray’s room.

“Well, make it go away then!”

A mage came out as well, and despite her being a mage, Sera would have been very appreciative of her looks, had this been yesterday. Some of them didn’t look half bad once they’d gotten out of their rags and robes.

“His Worship is not yet awake.” Lips pursed and all self-important, that made things easier. Sera gave her a hard look.

“Important Inquisition business!”

The scout nodded at the mage, and now she looked even more offended to be dealing with two non-mages or whatever, but she waved her hand and went back into the niche without another sound. The scout gave Sera a very miserable look, eyes turning to the niche in defeat and then back to Sera.

“You’d need to knock louder, Miss, it’s really early.”

“Got a key. Good luck with Her Majesty.”

The scout stepped back dejectedly and Sera hurried up the stairs. She had to leave the tray and book on the floor to pick the lock, but that was a familiar one, so it didn’t take long.

* * *

There had been new additions to the room, Sera found out as early as the blazing fire rune on top of the stairs. It still wasn’t much warmer than the Undercroft. She sneaked up and peeked into the room proper through the railings, but there was no movement from the bed or otherwise. She’d have breakfast, read her book on the couch and then she could even wake up Ray and ask for a hot bath.

Her morning mapped out, she gleefully climbed the rest of the stairs and passed the bed. Lots of fluffy covers but none as magical as hers.

The noise came unexpectedly, and while her eyes darted back to the pile on the bed, the tray suddenly swayed in her hands and the cup clattered.

“Shoo!” she hissed. Blasted raven tilted his head to look at her, eyes all black and shiny, the whole of him black against rest of the dimly lit room, then moved a step closer to the plate. “Shh! I’ll give you some ham, keep quiet!”

The bird didn’t ask, he took, and not caring one bit that she had offered in the first place. He lurched forward to snap some meat for himself, then pushed against the tray to lift up and fly back to where Sera couldn’t wring his neck.

Not that she cared for that at this very moment. The jug of coffee slid to the edge of the tray, together with the bread rolls, and with one arm still pressing the book against her body, she chose to save the coffee. The plate with the food was about to follow the bread, but by then Sera had regained control of the tray.

“Stupid bird, choke on it,” Sera muttered as she lowered the tray to the floor, picked one of the bread rolls that had stayed close by and crawled under the bed to chase after another. It was dark under the bed, even for her. She swiped an arm as far as she could, but met no bread roll in the way. Pulling further in, she repeated the motion, but whatever it was that met her fingers, was no bread roll.

She looked up to a green sky, the Breach stretching as far as she could see, pieces of a castle floating in mid-air. Next to her a statue was half-buried under red lyrium and the air was humming. Sera turned to run, heart slamming in her throat and thudding in her ears, but something hit her head and everything turned black. In the next second she recognized the blackness as the space underneath the bed, her head having just hit the wooden lattice above her. The wood creaked and enough reflected light made it in for her to make out a metal box, the bread roll nudged against it. She was so angry she almost left it there before she got out from under the bed.

Ray was looking over the bedside, squinting against his own frigging wisp.

“Sera…?” The light went out and he was pulling at his covers to slide back under them, face into the pillow and completely motionless once again.

“You daft tit, wake up!” She shook him, but he was deadweight. “Wake up, you arsehole mage!”

“I’m awake,” came an even-toned reply, the only reaction.

“Then get up!”

“It’s too early.”

“I’m gonna pour all the coffee on you next, just so you know.” She would, too.

He sat up with a sigh, staring at the wall ahead before he turned to fiddle with a lamp on the nightstand, then fluffed up his pillows. Sera thought he’d go back to sleep right away, but instead he propped them against the headboard and leaned into them, pulling the covers all the way up to his chin. His eyes found the jug of coffee next.

“Why do you have Josephine’s breakfast?”

“Reasons. What’s that horror box shite under the bed?”

“Just some flasks. There is still only one way out of this room. Served me well to have non-magic alternatives at Ostwick, although I did have to get more creative about hiding them.”

“Nobody is coming to attack you here, are you stupid?” That wasn’t the important thing anyway. Sera felt weird. She tried to recall what the statue in her vision had looked like, only to find most of the recollections having fled, only the feeling of having been there still with her. “What did you magic me with? And why… it’s like a dream now, almost gone.”

“It isn’t your memory, I’m not as good at that to hex something out of you. It was Redcliffe.”

The future, the one she hadn’t seen, not until now. It was still messed up to use that for his stupid hexes, why not put an angry bear and be done with it? Or bees.

“Can’t you, like, use a memory of Josie or Leliana? If they tell someone not to open the box, you bet the box is not getting opened.”

“They are not _that_ scary,” Ray chuckled.

“Knifey Shivdark? Sure is. And Josie makes you feel disappointed in yourself. Well, not me, I’m fine.”

“Fair enough, but I don’t want someone running to either of them to beg forgiveness and make them aware. Which means you need to keep quiet about it as well.”

“Fine, fine, keep your surprise attack. Just be careful not to set yourself on fire in your sleep.” Sera sat at the edge of the bed, bread roll still in her hand. She finally bit into it. “Can I see the flasks?”

The box screeched coming out dragged from under the bed until it stood in front of the nightstand. Ray held out a key to her, but pulled it away before she could snag it.

“It took me an hour to cast that spell,” he slipped out of the bed, Sera feeling the warming barrier cast almost immediately. Ray unlocked the box, lifted the lid and pulled the upper layer to the sides. There were only about a dozen flasks altogether, all half-burrowed in sand.

“Careful with this one,” he handed her a milky flask, matte and oily. “There’s wax on the inside as well. Acid.”

The acid and smoke ones were interesting, the Antivan fire nothing special. Sera handed back the flasks and watched Ray lock the box and shift it back under the bed. Could have been worse. Could have been a demon locked in the box.

“So why is Josephine’s breakfast here?”

“It was there. Not going into the kitchens for a bit after the custard.”

“Riiight,” Ray poured coffee into the cup, put it on the nightstand and crawled back under the covers. “What’s that blanket?”

“You can tell, right?” Sera snickered, lifted up to unwrap the blanket from around her and handed it to Ray. “Now, _that_ is proper magic.”

“Enchanting fabric is… wow, it’s amazing. Where did you get it? Is it yours?” His eyes were all shiny now, too.

“Maybe. Not yours anyway. Keep your hands off it.”

“You put it in my hands.”

Sera pulled the blanket away from him and smirked. None of those bulky fire and glowy runes that he knew about.

“How about this?” She picked up her book and opened where the bookmark lay. The light from the feather was much better than his paltry lamp. “You close the book, it goes dark, you open it, and you have light to read. Now, that is mine mine, for real.”

“Where can I get one, then?”

“Get your own arcanist, and maybe you can.”

“The archanist arrived? And she can make such things? Is she there now?… Where did they put her anyway?” Those were a lot of questions, they had come very fast and Sera wasn’t about to grace him with a reply to any of them.

“She has the cutest button nose,” She smiled. She was going to kiss that nose one of these days. Soon.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Sera mocked back. “Didn’t hear you ask when you were bumping noses with ‘my nose in marble’ Dorian, huh? If you’re gonna hide to snog, you need to look up first, by the way. People are talking anyway, but at least you’re getting something out of it this time.”

“I think I started it wrong,” Ray sighed. “It was different on the way here, but now he never brings up anything about himself. And all I did was ask stupid questions, so now I don’t want to ask more. The gossiping is only making it worse for him, so maybe he doesn’t really want anything to do with that anymore.”

Sera rolled her eyes. Yeah, right, people who wanted nothing to do with it always stared at the other’s arse when they weren’t staring into their face.

“Sera, don’t you want a bigger and warmer room?”

“No? I like my room.” Sera took a pillow from the bed and slid to the floor to get started on the breakfast. “I’ll introduce you to Dagna, don’t worry. Just…” the raven had landed back with them, hopping closer to the food once or twice, all fake shyness now, “tell him he can’t have any.”

“I’ll bring you some food later, Baron Plucky,” Ray readily said. The bird stood still, not moving to grab food from her plate but not flying away either. “La-ter,” he flew back to his balcony and Ray smiled. “He listens, see? Though he also has a lot of food up there, I have to get rid of most of it every couple of days.”

* * *

Ray’s bathtub was all white marble with pink veins and wide edges for the soaps and bottles. Most weren’t even open, some still in gift wrapping. Sera experimented with an Antivan soap and Nevarran oil and when the water started getting cold, she moved onto looking back and forth between the two mirrors on the walls. That felt a bit weird, because the niche was much too small for two mirrors. There were other things, too, tiny things for cutting toenails, so she cut as much toenail as she could, dried her hair in a fluffy towel and used a whole new towel for her body. It felt mighty fine.

When she got out, Ray had gone back to sleep. A dwarven timepiece next to the fireplace read 6:50, so there was still some time. She slid down the stairs and out of the room, then past the guards in the alcove.

“The Inquisitor will want breakfast at 7:30,” she spoke pointedly at the mage, who was giving her a scandalized look. “Then he is needed in the Undercroft.”

That was fun. Being important without doing a thing. Well, not much of a thing.

* * *

Being the one to introduce Ray to Dagna had been a mistake. He didn’t need an introduction, and two minutes after he’d come into the Undercroft, the two were chirping back and forth, Sera stuck there and unable to get a word in edgewise. Both looking like cats that got into the cream. Rifts, Breaches, Anchor, Fade, crap, crap, crap, spells, lyrium, technique, blah, blah. Hero of Ferelden, yay, wow, blargh. Sera stopped listening and doodled Ray falling off a cliff instead.

“Sera?”

Ray’s voice brought her out of her sulk, and she saw him ready to leave. Phew.

“Leaving in half an hour, are you going to be ready?”

“What?” She squinted, trying to remember what this was about.

“Crestwood? You said you were coming.”

Oh. That had been before Dagna. Also before finding out that nobody fun was coming. Something about no Wardens, and Bull leaving west to look into some frozen pit. Varric and Dorian were staying too. Cassandra she could live with, but Solas was coming too, and then they were going to meet up with Creepy.

“Wow, you can use the blanket on a real mission and let me know how it does!” Dagna beamed at her. “And if you get any samples from rifts, bring them to me!”

Wow, wow, how exciting. The things she’d do for a button nose.

* * *

_2 Haring, 9:41_

“I can feel the weakness in the Veil even above ground. Spirits are being called here like moths to flame.”

Sera spluttered some rainwater. That was exactly what she didn’t need to hear right now. Not when they were going to drain the lake and set whatever had gathered there free.

“The keep the mayor told us about,” Cassandra nodded toward the fortress. “The walls look sturdy. Taking it wouldn’t be easy.”

“The mayor was fishy.” Sera didn’t know why he’d acted like he had, almost like he’d rather have them out when no other help was coming. It couldn’t have been just Equinor. Or maybe it was, but the mayor didn’t know Equinor was their guide, which beat having Cole ramble into her head, and into his. “Why hasn’t anyone done anything, if it’s been like this for months?”

“Ferelden has failed the villagers of Crestwood.” 

Something to agree on with Solas, oh joy.

“We should drag the nobs out here. See how they do.” Probably how they had done in the Hinterlands, hide and do their authority-rattling once the danger was over.

They sneaked past the fort, avoiding being noticed by the archers on the ramparts. Those were probably rather looking anywhere else but the ground where undead walked, anyway. A few corpses swayed back and forth from the gallows beneath the castle walls. Maybe they’d get possessed, too, soon, and join the rest of the undead. Still fewer of them around than there had been in the nasty Fallow Mire. And the road was more than a narrow path through the marsh.

“I could open these,” Sera said once they were standing in front of heavy iron bars, the only thing guarding this entrance to the castle. It looked abandoned, cavern flooded and overgrown, with the outlines of some stairs in the distance. “Might want to wait for nightfall though, if we’re to try taking over.”

“We can’t stay even if we take over, we’d lose the keep after taking it,” Ray shook his head, “and we don’t have time to sit around until nightfall. We’ll send a note to Scout Harding to gather more of our people and will get started once we’ve met Hawke and Loghain.”

So they abandoned the iron bars and moved on, inland despite Equinor pulling to the coast. Creepy might have spared them the horse, if they were going to ignore it.

“Are we going to where the dragon is?”

“A dragon?” Cassandra looked at her like this was news, and then immediately turned her eyes to where Ray and Solas were riding and talking. Maybe it had been news, she had been with the corpses-burning Chantry sister while Sera and Ray had looked through the village notice board.

“There’s one who ate someone called Henry. Maybe. And a lamb, maybe.” The important thing was that there was a dragon. “You can hunt dragons, right?”

“I am not my family’s legacy, but if there is one attacking the people, then yes, we might need to hunt her.” Cassandra slowed her horse, seemingly abandoning the idea to go inquire with Ray. “The Champion writes that there were Red Templars in the hills, we need to take those out.”

Sera hadn’t seen any of those since the attack on Haven, and when they found the encampment she wanted to get out of there as soon as she could. Some in Haven had still been people, or almost people. None of these were any longer, not much different from the rift demons.

She stayed further back with Solas, letting arrows fly into whichever monster she spotted an opening with. Solas was more selective, she noticed, picking off his targets from those close to either Cassandra or Ray. One templar rushed towards the side of the battle to attack them, but he hadn’t made it too close before he turned into a block of ice, into which Solas immediately fired a lightning spell.

“I think we might have been able to take over Caer Bronach after all,” Sera muttered when it was over. “What do you do to them, Cassandra? They all turned into gurgling messes around you.”

“I can set the lyrium within a person’s blood aflame.”

“That’s not weird at all, then.” Sera swallowed. Better an arrow than that, anytime. “Is that why Cullen is so twitchy around you?”

“No, Sera, that is not…”

“Cullen doesn’t take lyrium anymore,” Ray cut in, having approached. Solas was setting the _things_ on fire.

“He has told you then?” Cassandra turned to Ray who just shrugged.

“I knew that in Haven, but he did tell me eventually. It’s not like quitting lyrium would make him a better person, it’s all in his head. Anyway, seems to have this well in hand.”

“Is that what you told him?” Cassandra’s eyes narrowed and Sera could smell trouble coming. Their series of short-lived truces was getting a annoying.

“More or less. Took it better than Hawke’s speech, so clearly I must work on my delivery.”

“Cullen has asked that I recommend a replacement for him.” Cassandra raised her hands, fists balled up, then let them fall to her sides again. “I refused. It’s not necessary.”

“You recruited him, so that doesn’t surprise me. As for me, it’s apparently not my call to make.” Ray turned to walk away, but the Seeker grabbed his wrist, not gently, from what Sera could tell.

“Mages have made their suffering known, but templars never have. They are bound to the Order, mind and soul, with someone always holding their lyrium leash.”

“A surprisingly long leash, considering the last year. But I will spare a second for every templar’s pain. Concurrently, of course, I’m a busy man.”

He tried to free his hand, but Sera knew what the iron grip felt like, and Ray wasn’t any more successful at it than she herself had been when she’d first tried to shake off Cassandra. He got pulled closer, instead, a flash of pain on his face that seemed to wipe out the anger. Sera blinked. Once the flash was over, Ray’s face completely relaxed, even his eyes. Cassandra’s face was still all anger, or maybe doubled now, or at least it looked like that to Sera. She had long taken a step back to give the scary people more room. They hadn’t been as scary in quite a while. Solas walked next to her and simply watched.

“What do you want me to do, Cassandra? Pet his hair and tell him ‘you can make it’? I. Don’t. Care.”

“Cullen has a chance to break that leash,” Cassandra’s hand let go, but nothing about her expression changed, “and instead of helping, of taking care of your people, you’d rather be petty and vengeful.”

“I see coddling comes highly recommending when it suits you,” Ray had taken his own step back and was demonstratively putting ice around his wrist. “As does blackmailing me with my position, when I had no say in his.”

Cassandra lost it, then, and yelled.

“Yes, if you need blackmail to not stand there and watch a man’s life get ruined!”

“Oh, but it’s pettiness and vengefulness when I do it and pain and compulsion when he does? When he did for years. And if you need someone to yell at about lyrium leashes, well, I’m not the one who made and maintained the templars. Perhaps Leliana still has that list of Mother Giselle’s and can direct you to a more relevant audience.”

With that, Ray turned on his heels and started descending the hill, back to the road. Sera felt like asking Cassandra over for a drink, now that all her anger had turned into doom and gloom.

“Seeker,” Solas voice came from her side, “if you allow me to say so, perhaps it was not the best approach to admonish him. To a prisoner a jailer is rarely a man—he is just another door, one of flesh and blood.”

“I didn’t recruit Cullen for where he had faltered,” Cassandra mumbled, “but for where he stood after, for the peace he had restored in Kirkwall.”

“Putting everyone back to their duties can be a daunting task, yes. But it is easy to have peace when one side of the conflict leaves. Easier yet if you control how the other thinks. All that started in Kirkwall was one man releasing the pressure your centuries of peace had put on the mages.”

“Are you saying what happened was right and long due? All the lives lost?”

“No, merely that it was not without provocation. Every war costs lives, and every war remains in history by the words of its heroes and winners.”

Sera finally turned to leave. They weren’t paying any attention to her, and it was all about the war, once again.

“You are asking of him to desert and hand you the quill. To forgive and trust while your legacy is built on guilt and fear.”

Baldy was harsh.

* * *

“Josie said your brother left the templars. What happened to him? The lyrium thing, I mean.”

Sera had caught up with Ray, who hadn’t looked back even once. She hadn’t either, but she could hear the hooves of the other two horses, so at least Cassandra wasn’t riding in the opposite direction. They had gone back to riding along the coast now, to avoid bandits’ arrows. Rain meant no permanent barriers. No warming barriers either, and Sera’s feet were soaked and cold, even with Dagna’s blanket keeping her warm under her cloak.

Baron Plucky had returned from messenger duty and had finally relented on the whole mistrust thing, quietly perched on the pommel of Equinor’s saddle, with Ray’s cloak draped over. Sera would swear there was a warming barrier put up for him.

“Not exactly what happened. He was on his third year of training when my mother pulled him out. Once she found out about my magic.”

“Not buying the whole friends thing then, your mother.” Sera yawned. It had started getting dark and all the traveling and arguing had exhausted her, even if it was still the afternoon.

“My mother is a lot of things, but she is neither an idiot, nor a zealot. My brother was one for a while. Well, both, for a few years.” Ray smiled tiredly. “Until it dawned on him that he’d suddenly become a youngest son, with no obligations and a lot of money. He still is.”

“It’s good then, right? I mean, probably a shite nob, but at least he’s not dead, or killing, or drinking the red stuff.”

“He’s drinking plenty of red stuff, some bottles more expensive than lyrium. Not that the red lyrium has any value now, just sprouting out of everywhere.”

“Yeah, what are we going to do about that?” Dagna was more interested in all of this stuff than anyone should ever be. But she’d said she was better than careful _ish_.

“Not sure about _all_ of it,” Ray replied, “but Orzammar will remove and block as much as they can. Probably because they can’t sell it, but that’s still better than leaving it out there.”

“Dagna says she can never return to Orzammar. What about the ones who have to chip away at the red lyrium above ground?”

“The red lyrium that’s coming out of the ground used to be regular lyrium, we are told. It still follows the regular mining veins, for most of it they are collapsing it down… and then dumping it who knows where. In some abandoned corridor, there are a whole lot of them underground. The other red lyrium…”

What other, Sera wondered. The one she remembered… remembering?

“The other kind we don’t know what we’ll do about. Bull is out investigating something about it.”

* * *

The rain had briefly turned into snow, and like all _better_ things it didn’t last. Not ten minutes after the snow ceased a small chunk of ice hit Sera’s nose. Then another, and another. Nature was rubbish.

They ducked into the nearest cave just as the hail started for real. An hour later and they had to do exactly the same thing for the next hail, when ice crystals larger than peas started hammering down on them.

“Just punch it, Cassandra!”

They were soaked and hungry, and they had a druffalo in the cave with them. Sera was starving, and they had a druffalo. They should have taken more food with them.

“I am not going to punch a druffalo, Sera.” Cassandra said resolutely. “We cannot eat all of it, the smell could attract other animals, the horses might scare, and we’re not staying in an abattoir.”

“Ray could kill it then,” Sera decided. “And burn the rest.” She pondered for a second. “There won’t be much left of it, I’m really hungry. Everyone is, right?”

“Not hungry enough for that,” Ray declared and went back to drying his boots with magey fire. “Besides, are you going to cut it up yourself?”

No, she wouldn’t. Why wasn’t Bull here when you needed him? He could fricassee the stupid thing and help her eat it, too.

Solas was being quiet and not spewing words, and when Sera looked at him, she saw he was already dozing off.

“Orlesians have a proverb ‘he who sleeps, dines’,” Cassandra’s lips curved up. “They must have meant him. We should rest as well, we can still make it to the Champion’s cave before midnight.”

“Had enough of caves. Need a fire, a mug, and a _city_ ,” Sera’s whine was louder than her stomach’s.

If they weren’t going to eat, she couldn’t rest, and if she couldn’t rest, they might just as well gallop back and take Caer Bronach instead. The bandits had food for sure. Only, Cassandra was already unlatching her armor and getting ready to dry it.

“We have some crackers,” Ray quipped and offered her a pouch.

“We have like five!” She ate three, looked at another three remaining, then stashed them in her pocket. “Did you know that you can make, like, really good soup from a druffalo’s tail?”

“It would get really angry,” Ray retorted. “Back in Haven, I…, anyway, I won. The mark was still bothering me.”

Cassandra huffed one of her short amused snorts, but it sounded too nice. Not mean enough to goad Ray into doing in the druffalo.

Three more crackers.

“Cassandra,” Ray spoke directly to the Seeker for the first time in hours, and the tension that had been carefully ignored, returned.

“Yes… Inquisitor?”

“I will tell Cullen that he doesn’t need to take lyrium. Just that.”

“Thank you, I…”

“Nothing else changes. You have your deal with him and next time you refuse his request, refuse it because he’s wrong, not because you want him to be wrong.”

Ray stood up and walked to the entrance of the cave to cast a few wards. Cassandra turned to Sera and gave her a somewhat questioning, somewhat grateful look, and Sera wondered what the best way would be to show her she had no idea.

“Should cheer him up,” she drawled. “Shift that stick in his arse.”

The look turned exasperated, so that was good enough. Cassandra wouldn’t find it funny, but Ray probably did. All that drama resolved just like that. Words.

She still couldn’t sleep, because nobody normal dined while asleep. That’s why for the next hour only Solas, Ray and the raven slept.


	31. Chapter 31

_2 Haring, 9:41_

It was long past midnight when they finally reached their destination. The rain had persisted, but had gradually turned to light drizzle. Sera had eventually found a hare to shoot, but the small meal hadn’t quite worked out to keep them more alert and awake. Luckily nothing and nobody had attacked them.

“Warden Loghain Mac Tir. I believe we have a common cause, Inquisitor.”

Loghain was a man with a long list of heroics and just as long one of… failures, one might say. Follies that had nearly doomed Ferelden. He didn’t deny the claims, though Cassandra wasn’t sure he accepted them either. She wondered whether it had been the time spent serving the Wardens that had given him his dignity back. He appeared friendly, not least due to being handed a letter from Queen Anora by Trevelyan.

Hawke was missing and when they asked about it, Loghain shrugged in the direction of one of the forks in the cave. Cole was the first one Cassandra saw when she went to check. The spirit looked at her like a befuddled owl, his back glued to the wall, knees drawn up. Cassandra’s eyes trailed on the staff propped against the wall before they followed to the ground. Cole’s fingers were entwined with those of Hawke, curled up under his cloak, fast asleep.

* * *

“We never received any reply from Weisshaupt,” Trevelyan muttered. “Corypheus is darkspawn, why are they quiet?”

“There is something strange about the knowledge of Corypheus. I protested the rituals, but faced little resistance until I began to investigate his death. I warned Clarel and the others about him when we started hearing the Calling, yet the notion of him just slips off and away.”

“They are being mind-controlled then,” Trevelyan said. “Or can the Calling itself do something like that?”

Something nagged at the edge of Cassandra’s mind. She’d seen Cole a few times before he had revealed himself to Solas, yet all that remained of those encounters were vague memories, and those had only resurfaced later. She was supposed to be immune to mind control, and she was supposed to notice when it was being used. Making someone forget seemed like the most dangerous form of them all.

Loghain didn’t seem to think that the plan to use blood magic to prevent all future Blights was merely mind control. Nor that Clarel would willingly serve the Blight. Whatever the Calling really felt like, he thought it maddening enough to make the Wardens panic in the face of all of them dying and leaving nobody to protect Thedas from another Blight. It seemed convoluted, but Cassandra had already seen this isolation and desperation strategy once before, and prayed that this time it wouldn’t end in another hole through time.

“Do you know if Warden-Commander Amell is with them?”

Loghain barked out a sharp laugh before his face darkened again.

“I suppose it is possible that she joined them. She left to the west some time ago, but it seems now the Wardens have moved there as well. Your strange friend followed two of them for a while. They are gathering in the Western Approach, in an ancient Tevinter ritual tower. He also heard about an “advisor” of some kind. Everything I know should point against her being that advisor, but…”

“But she is a blood mage,” Cassandra finished. “And a blood mage is pulling the strings here. One the other Wardens listen to.”

“That is where you are wrong, Seeker,” Loghain’s eyes glinted. “For one, she is no longer the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and in practice she barely ever was. Being the Hero of Ferelden gave her the leeway for eccentricity and disobedience, but by the time the mage uprising was in full swing she was up for court martial rather than a recognition of her heroics. No,” Loghain shook his head, “if she is behind this, it’s not on the laurels of her name. But if it is her… then the Inquisition has another terrible foe.”

“Why did she pardon and recruit you?” Trevelyan suddenly lifted his eyes from the fire. “You were going to be executed, weren’t you?”

“That would be the final argument against Wardens following her with any great inspiration,” Loghain harrumphed. “Little of it was a pardon, for she never thought of this as mercy or something to aspire to. But,” he let his eyes roam over Trevelyan, “you are from the Ostwick Circle, and Ostwick was peaceful. What did the teyrn offer to the mages?”

“I don’t know if ‘offer’ is way I’d put it…” Trevelyan chuckled, “not before the Inquisition, anyway.”

“A wise move, probably, should he have been unable to follow through with his promises. I promised to a few of the enchanters independence for the Ferelden Circle. I couldn’t fulfill this when I ended up with a civil war and the Blight on my doorstep, and things ended badly. Still, Amell wanted to know my reasons.”

“So you _were_ going to give them independence?”

“Why would I want to keep Ferelden’s best weapon in the Orlesian Chantry’s grip? And by the look on your face I see you like my reasons no more than Amell did.”

“You think it strange not wanting to be considered a weapon?” Trevelyan’s eyes slid to his marked hand.

There were times Cassandra felt sorry for him. If he believed he was Andraste’s chosen, his whole standing would feel to him like it felt to Skyhold’s population, a blessing and a holy mission. Without that to give it meaning, it was bound to be a whole lot emptier.

“A soldier, if you’d rather have it. I’ve seen mages in battle.”

“And if the other side has mages as well? We’d just kill each other.”

“That is what happens in war, invariably, and just as invariably one day war comes. Or are the lives of ordinary solders so much cheaper in the eyes of the Circle?” Loghain turned to Solas when Trevelyan remained silent.

“Magic has always been part of war, and those with imagination use war to push the limits of the possible.”

Cassandra shuddered.

“Well, I’ve had enough of war.” Sera stood up, the last remains of Loghain’s meal long gone. “I want my old problems back!”

* * *

Trevelyan was sitting under the light of a small wisp, leaning forward over a sheet of paper, slowly writing. A scrambled message to Skyhold, most likely. Cassandra didn’t think she’d seen him so tired and worried before. True, all of them were tired, and Sera and Solas had already gone to sleep, the latter only taking some time to put up wards around the cave’s entrance.

“The raven is not back yet, you should get some sleep,” she said when the quill had remained still for too long and Trevelyan’s eyes were drooping shut. The quill faltered and he dropped it next to the inkwell to rub fingers against his temples.

“I need a healer, I think I’m coming down a cold.”

Cassandra wondered whether he’d go to a healer for a stubbed toe. He likely would, and think nothing of it. She had never seen him with a cold, though, and going by what she knew, he himself had never lived through one as an adult. It wasn’t a new experience worth having when the coming day would be filled with battles.

“I have some medicine,” she rummaged through her bag to find the ground herbs, “and I will get you some more covers. It will be fine if you get your rest and stay warm.”

He mumbled something and got started writing again. Cassandra went to get a cup and some hot water, stirred the herbs in it, and after some deliberation accepted the brandy Loghain handed her. Trevelyan pulled a face when she gave him the cup and he tasted the contents, but still drank. When she had gathered all the covers she could and returned to him, he had finished the mixture, the inkwell was closed, the letter ready by the looks of it. Cassandra usually needed a few tools to compose her messages to Leliana, and it took her a while.

“You are good at this.” She wasn’t used to paying compliments, even the ones she meant. “Leliana is very fiddly with her codes.”

“It’s a cipher, not a code.”

The man had a way to get on her nerves without even trying, and this was him tired.

“I’ve only seen a few scouts and Leliana herself do the _ciphers_ in their head.” She tried not to make it so pointed, failing. “Did you… in the Circle, did you have ciphers to get around being watched?”

“We had _codes_.” There was the slightest hint of mirth in his tone, so Cassandra decided to count that as a victory, and let him do the same.

“Well, you are good at the ciphers. Probably at the codes, too, considering how things went down at the Ostwick Circle.”

She wanted to unsee the proud smile that played on his lips. Better not delve into further compliments about the massive disparity between documented alchemical supplies and reality.

“Leliana gives me all her reports enciphered,” Trevelyan said, still smiling, “and usually requests mine in kind. Pretty used to it by now.”

“That seems like a tremendous waste of your time,” Cassandra frowned, confused.

“To be fair, I think that’s what it was initially, something to keep me busy. Though I also asked her, at some point, whether she could teach me how to be a bard.”

“You wouldn’t guess her Fereldan,” Cassandra sighed. She’d had little to do with Justinia’s Left Hand before the Inquisition. Rather than simply having a difference in opinions across the board, Leliana simply rarely interacted with her even now. “You are far too recognizable to be a bard, wouldn’t you say?”

“Empress Celene is one,” Trevelyan pointed out.

“Oh, so you meant more along the lines of scheming politician rather than a spy and assassin?”

She felt saddened all of the sudden, more than ever, that Trevelyan was a non-believer. Another failing of the Chantry.

“You shouldn’t be part of that. The plots of favors, blackmail and backstabbing that’s the Orlesian court. People still look at you as the chosen of Andraste.”

“From what I’ve learned, Justinia played the same game,” Trevelyan folded and rolled the letter to fit the small tube that would go on the raven’s leg. To him Justinia was… yet another failing of the Chantry.

“Perhaps that is how Leliana saw it. She and I remember a different person.”

Cassandra felt colder, and it took her a few seconds to realize that there had been a warming spell around them, and that now it was gone. Too tired, both of them, like everybody else. It was a dubious relief to have to count on the wards and Cole to warn them should anyone approach, but a welcome one nonetheless.

She stood up and offered Trevelyan a hand.

“You know, maybe you should work on your subtlety and presentation, if you want to be a bard.”

He pulled his hand away and glared at her. At least she could get to him as easily as he to her. Quite like things were between Sera and Solas, in fact. Even these two had a few more things to agree on after the past day, namely the lunacy of whatever it was that the Wardens were planning in their panic.

Cassandra stopped a few steps away from the sleeping elves, barely illuminated by the small fire in the middle of the clearing, and pointed at the dozen blankets and spare cloaks she’d gathered. Her own sheathed sword she placed at the narrowest part of the corridor, then wrapped her cloak around herself and prepared to look for a comfortable spot to lie down.

Trevelyan took two steps to the back of the clearing, then suddenly stopped and turned to look at her with concern.

“What is it?” Cassandra whispered with some exasperation.

“Shouldn’t you take a few blankets as well? At least to lie on, the floor is very hard.” He made some nondescript gesture at the floor, and… blushed? It was hard to tell in the low light.

“Please go to sleep and don’t worry, Inquisitor,” Cassandra sighed with some discomfort. “I will make do.”

“Oh,” he muttered, still looking at the floor and appearing about as uncomfortable as she felt. Then he abruptly turned away. “I was just working on my presentation. Good night.”

“Hilarious,” Cassandra grunted and dropped to the floor.

* * *

_3 Haring, 9:41_

The heavy cloak had yielded to the cold dampness of the cave. She held a sneeze as she looked around and saw the others still asleep. Sera had wandered halfway through the clearing, still cocooned in her blanket. Solas appeared to be in the exact same pose he had dozed off the night before. Trevelyan almost so himself, only he was now lying on top of his staff rather than next to it. Under the blankets and the cloaks only the twin dragons were visible, partly covered by a mop of black hair.

She exhaled the aborted sneeze and stood up, peeking into the corridor to the right as she made for the exit after picking up her bag. Hawke and Cole were both gone, as were the horses, she found out as she walked on. Near the mouth of the cave Loghain had kindled a small fire to sit by, eyes closed. He did open them slightly, to nod at her, then went back to his slumber.

The sun was coming up, weak and pale behind the clouds. Dawn didn’t come as early anymore, so they had been asleep for quite a few hours. Some twenty paces ahead the horses were grazing, all but one. Equinor was just standing, almost blending in.

There was something pleasing about waking up on a cold floor and walking into a grey and wet morning. The harsh nights in the snow before they had reached Skyhold had been the only ones in months where people, be it Inquisition scouts or simple peasants, weren’t tripping over themselves to make even the most inhospitable region warm, dry and safe for Trevelyan.

Cassandra went to the horses and strayed from her intended target, her mare, to approach the Avvar stead. The mud was somehow still sticking to her, after all the rain they’d been through.

“You’ll have a rider soon enough,” she dared to pet the mane and found it lush and unexpectedly soft. The horse paid her no mind.

They should have taken more spare horses, but they had expected unavoidable ambushes. Assuming they’d give Hawke and Loghain a horse each, something would need to be done about the riding arrangements until they reached Crestwood or Caer Bronach. Sera and Cole it would be, no doubt. Sera with Trevelyan, Cole with Solas… that would make sense. But then Trevelyan would be on Equinor, and Sera wouldn’t like that. Maker, she would have Sera clinging to her back for hours, prodding her to play her guessing games. It took Sera at least half an hour to shut up when they shared a tent.

Cassandra decided to postpone brushing the horses, minus two, as well as rotating through riding combinations, in favor of a walk in search of Hawke and Cole.

She didn’t need to walk far, as she noticed the staff, blade burrowed in the coarse sand and rubble of the coast of Three Trout Pond almost immediately after turning past a large rock in her way. At first she didn’t understand what she was looking at. She had barely seen Cole without a hat on his head. Now the spirit boy was precariously sprawled on the pier, the upper half of him bent down, hands dipped in the water. He straightened, hat pulled out of the water in his hands, then quickly turned around away from Cassandra to pour the water it was holding into a wooden basin placed next to him on the pier. Then he went back down and repeated the whole thing, another hatful of water poured in.

She had been staring so intently, so focused on what Cole was doing as she approached, that when another hand emerged from the water, she jumped. When the hand was followed by another, attached to a naked Hawke, who pulled himself up to drop a fish into the basin, Cassandra couldn’t help a small yelp and promptly turned around. She could feel the heat rising up to her ears, in addition to the sudden thudding. She was a soldier, this really wasn’t a situation she should have startled from. She mutters something that she herself couldn’t hear, and even though she hadn’t even noticed any waves before, now they seems to be splashing against the coast, loudly. Cassandra straightened and prepared to ask again, to shout ahead of necessary.

“Ah!”

She jumped again when Cole suddenly materialized before her, still without his hat.

“Ennis said you could have a look.” The spirit’s head tilted to the side, brows furrowed. “But you are too late. When the Iron Bull…”

“Cole!” Maybe they should have given Cole a room somewhere away from the tavern and the Qunari. “Ugh.”

It helped her finally breathe, before she turned around. Hawke was standing with his back to them, pants blessedly on. He was striking, as he stood there combing a hand through his hair. It occurred to her that she would have never guessed him a mage if she hadn’t known. Trevelyan was still more on the side of slim, and overall he still came across as a noble rather than a Circle mage. Dorian… if there was such a thing as a manicured muscle, it would have been Dorian’s.

Hawke was all functional muscle, not a warrior’s build, but certainly closer to an archer’s, or a duelist’s. The figure from Varric’s book seemed almost comical in comparison to the man himself. He looked even taller than he had in Skyhold, with the legs of his pants rolled up. A few scars immediately jumped at her, much paler than the skin around them. His hair returned to its lighter color as the water was dried away and Cassandra recalled Varric’s words about how different Hawke looked from his famous cousin. If it hadn’t been for his stay in Rivain, he might have resembled Leliana.

“They have the same hair, and the same pain. I couldn’t find any bees here.” Cole dejectedly moved onto the pier.

“Bees?”

“Bees make honey. I put one in Leliana’s wine every night.”

Cassandra saw Hawke’s shoulders shake and the mage dropped his shirt back on the pier beam to reach down and pick Cole’s hat from the basin instead. Cole skipped ahead like a puppy. The demon that had killed Lord Seeker Lambert appeared so guileless and childlike, and at times Cassandra found herself spying back as Cole spied on her, wondering just what he made of everything around him with the simple logic he employed. She felt for the book in her bag and could tell the blush returned when Hawke turned around to ruffle Cole’s hair before putting the dried hat back on his head. Cole’s fingers immediately went to cling to the brim and Hawke gave Cassandra a playful smile over the spirit’s head.

She hesitantly attempted to return the smile but it died on her lips as Cole knelt down to play with the fish in the basin. On a leather strap from Hawke’s neck hung a Tevinter Chantry amulet. It dangled as he reached to the side and then the shirt came over his head and hid it from view.

“It doesn’t hold the significance you might think it does,” Hawke said offhandedly and put on the Rivaini jacket without hurry, yet his eyes darted to the staff on the coast. It wouldn’t take more than a wave of his hand to pull it to himself, but he sat down next to Cole instead, at the edge of the pier. “Though if it weren’t a piece of sentimental sacrilege, I might have left it with your Inquisitor.”

“Trevelyan doesn’t believe in the Maker,” Cassandra let out, for the first time grateful that this lack of belief extended to the Tevinter Chantry. With the rumors about him and Dorian, that would have been the last straw.

“It wouldn’t be to convert him,” Hawke chuckled and leaned back on his hands. “Isn’t that what the Southern Chantry is about though, what the Circles were for? Mages not ruling. Now you have one doing exactly that, and from what I hear, it was you who put him there.”

“It wasn’t _just_ me,” Cassandra took another step and sat down herself, still two paces away from Hawke. “And he isn’t just a mage… it’s him.”

“After everything, _that one_ ’s magic is just fine?”

“Ray’s magic is beautiful,” Cole spoke dreamily, right before he submerged his whole head in the basin. Hawke caught and held up the hat before it could get wet again. Cassandra felt absurd as all three of them stayed quiet and the seconds stretched, longer than a human could comfortably hold his breath. She was about to stand up and go pull the boy’s head out, but then Cole’s hand wandered into the basin and a fish jumped out, falling onto his head before it slid back into the water.

“I’ve never been swimming,” Cole made it out, water falling from his mouth and nose as he spoke. “It’s different from floating. I didn’t like to float in the pool I went to in the White Spire, there was nothing once you were inside.”

“You ought to be pretty good at it, especially if you don’t have to breathe. There are flowers and corals near the Rivaini coast, and colorful fish to match.” Hawke’s feet dangled over the water’s surface. “Though I suppose not enough emotion to hold your attention.”

“More colorful, and more noisy. Beauty that goes unnoticed.” Cole murmured, then his eyes went wide. “A world where some things outlive the ones who created them, fingerprints upon fingerprints.”

Hawke’s form went still, shoulders sagged and face pained. Cassandra remained quiet, used by now to the puzzling half-conversations Cole had, prodding around in people’s pain. This one likely wasn’t working, just like most of what she had witnessed. Cole could feel that too, because his eyes turned frantic.

Hawke turned away from her then, to comb fingers through the spirit’s hair to dry it once again with his free hand. The sun had briefly shown from behind the clouds, and for a moment they both looked ethereal, the light softly reflected in their hair. This time Hawke handed the hat to Cole rather than putting it on his head himself.

“Accepting that one day you’ll be gone, because you’re not really gone if people remember. Justice loves this world and it will always have a part of you in it.”

Cassandra sat, stunned and mute as Hawke’s expression grew into sharp concentration at the same time as Cole’s faltered back into confusion.

“Cole,” the mage said lightly at last, “the others will need to wake up soon, and we have the fish, but everyone will feel better if there is something to go with it. Why not go fetch the oats from my bag and help Loghain cook something Fereldan with them?”

“But…”

“It is not a pain you can heal,” Hawke almost whispered, “perhaps it will turn out fine. Don’t burden yourself with it.”

Cole nodded, unhappily, and stood up to slink away, turning back every few steps. He hadn’t disappeared behind the rock yet when Hawke pulled out a dagger and grabbed another wooden basin that had been hanging upturned on one of the beams. He covered the bottom with ice, then reached for a fish.

“Varric told me the truth then, about Anders… and Justice.” Cassandra swallowed. That part of the story she had thought the least likely to be true, something to write off the events in Kirkwall as even less under anyone’s control, or something to make her stop looking for Hawke. She had only reconsidered it again, briefly, when Varric had mentioned it to Blackwall.

“Did you torture him, or just rough him up?”

Cassandra frowned, indignantly.

“Oh, no need to hold back in front of me, I threatened him myself a few times, when the stupid stories and rummaging through my journal got too much.” Hawke swiped the fish innards off the pier, dangled the fish itself in the water in the basin and then tossed it on the ice. “Don’t know why I bother, it’s freezing anyway.” He grabbed another fish.

“He still considered you a friend enough to keep us from finding you.” It didn’t come out as bitter as she had expected it to be.

“He considers me interesting book material, more like it. Or a prime candidate for salvation.” He paused his knife only to stare at the fish for what felt like minutes, then sighed. “Look, Varric and I had different priorities, especially as time went by. He tried to protect his people, but by the end of it bribes wouldn’t cut it, and neither would words. Though the book helped… a famous false trail for everyone to chase. But that is what people will remember one day. The buccaneering rags to riches Champion from Varric’s tale. The madman apostate Anders from yours.” 

Cassandra swallowed her words. She didn’t know a word for a possessed mage other than ‘abomination’, and as little as she thought of her ability to hold back, now she wanted to. Hawke seemed different as well, expression more wistful than the mocking bitterness at Skyhold, his Rivaini clothes less bright in the pale dawn. He still had this inexplicable heavy presence around him, like something invisible was radiating from him, making him feel like he was always in the center of everything.

“After I learned the story I thought you very… heroic,” Cassandra adamantly left out “romantic.”

Hawke raised a skeptical eyebrow and she felt herself grow hot again.

“I know what happened in Kirkwall wasn’t the answer, but… so many failed for it to get there. I truly believe the Chantry can no longer be fixed from within.”

“Do you believe that the Circles can be fixed from within then?”

Cassandra halted. She did believe that, and had asked Solas about it. He believed Tranquility awaited those who’d try to.

“Even the Inquisitor said he wanted independence, not tearing everything to the ground,” she said instead. She frankly wasn’t sure anymore how sincere Trevelyan had been in that conversation early in Haven, or what independence even really meant for the mages. “It is working, you’ve seen it, at Skyhold.”

“I’ve seen it work in Rivain, Seeker, and at Ostagar. And I didn’t need to come to Skyhold to see people pay respect to a mage.” Hawke chuckled mirthlessly. “Call me when it lasts.”

“Why do you have so little faith in us working together?”

“I’ve seen Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino ‘work together’ against the Qunari, and you know how that ended. Unless you want Corypheus around forever, you’ll run out of common enemies to unite over, sooner or later.”

“Not all of us are Meredith. There were abuses and we will never find a peaceful solution to this conflict until we admit that we were partially responsible. The Seekers went from guarding against injustice to perpetrating it, and I took my leave after what happened at the White Spire.”

“I got filled in on the few hours of debate at the Conclave, so let’s skip right over this,” Hawke interrupted. “The abuses you so vaguely speak of are not why I’m fighting. You could go ahead and fix everything you failed at, and I’d still oppose you.”

Cassandra combed a hand through her hair as Hawke picked yet another fish. Silence settled on the pier, disturbed only by the splashing waves. Hawke’s hands were steady, moving evenly and without haste. His eyes were lowered again, the part of his face she could see underneath the fallen hair calm and relaxed. Yet the presence was more palpable than ever. She couldn’t say if it was anger or something deeper than that, nor why she was feeling it so sharply. There was something about Hawke that made Cassandra utterly aware that she could never grab him and vent out her frustration at him.

“Why are you fighting?” Her voice came out almost inaudible. “What do you want?”

“What I want is for mages to have both what I had, _and_ what I thought I could never have.”

“You mean more than never having been in a Circle?”

“Do you think that was freedom? We lived hiding everything about ourselves, never getting close to anyone. My sister wasn’t even an adult when she got so sick of it, the only thing that kept her from turning herself in was that the templars would come for her father and brother. Then Kirkwall…”

Hawke rinsed the knife and his hands in the remaining water, all fish gutted and cleaned. The air around him had changed, and once again Cassandra couldn’t put her finger on what exactly it felt like. She held back a practiced instinct to reach for a cleansing spell. She’d started wondering whether Hawke himself wasn’t the one possessed.

“Kirkwall was really good at first, especially after our escape from Lothering. I’d lived in Gwaren as a child, but once my magic manifested, we always moved around the countryside. I had forgotten what a large city felt like, and I’d never known anonymity by sheer numbers. We were indentured, my brother and I, and things weren’t always cheery, but I started using my magic. Sparingly, and only on missions, when it mattered little. We were criminals either way. It wasn’t much, but I thought that was as far as it got for an apostate. Then I met Anders.”

The frightening part. Mostly frightening, Cassandra thought as she chased away another nagging notion of “romantic” from her mind. She wondered how that really changed things from Varric’s book. The outcome had been the same. Hawke had fought alongside the rebel Warden, then disappeared to sow further dissent against the Chantry. That seemed… precise enough for what would remain in history. Was the abomination part what really changed the story, or was it the fact that Hawke hadn’t disappeared alone, that he had exiled himself for more than ideology? How was it even possible for someone to be possessed for years on end?

“Varric made it sound like it was love at first sight,” she let out a forced laugh, then added, with sincerity that surprised even her, “I thought that part better than the book.”

“It was, I think,” Hawke laughed, quietly. “The revelation wasn’t about that, however. He was a mage, and he still hid from the templars. But he didn’t hide from the ordinary people, and they didn’t run from him. They lied to the templars, brought him food and even tried to kill us when they thought we meant him harm. You must know, I still had a whole lot of Circle education in me without ever having been there. I felt as if I’d been pulled out of a well in which I’d spent twenty years. He knew what freedom was even though he’d had no more than a glimpse at it.”

“This is not how people normally react to a mage, and what happened in the end hardly made mages more accepted. Reforms take time. Work with us and…”

“You’ve had eight-hundred years, Seeker. I don’t expect you to fix problems you are utterly blind to, certainly not the ones you caused.” Hawke cocked his head and looked at her, almost mischievously. “I don’t mean just you, of course. And, anyway, I know how to work together with people I disagree with. I could barely get my friends to stop fighting.”

Cassandra barked out another nervous laugh and rose up.

“He knows how to, as well. The Inquisitor, I mean. I’m not as good at that… nor at talking, but I want you to know, I am grateful that you’re here helping us, no matter your motivations. I suppose I should tell that to him as well. We disagree, and we give each other grief, but in the grand scope of things there is little I can fault him for, and much to be optimistic about.”

She rummaged through her bag as Hawke looked at her with questioning indulgence. Her fingers closed around _Tale of the Champion_.

“I am going to apologize to Varric about earlier… with the table,” she blushed as Hawke’s expression turned even more lenient, “but having met you now, I suppose I should part with this.”

She handed him the book and allowed herself to exhale and relax her shoulders.

“Now that’s a fair literary assessment,” Hawke slid a finger over the uneven rip in the cover where her knife had gone through, all the way to the back. “What do you want me to do with this, exactly?”

“I… I don’t know! Whatever you want. It just doesn’t seem right to keep it as a memory after… unless… would you autograph it?”

* * *

She felt so giddy with the book in her bag, with Hawke’s signature in it, that she was mentally slapping herself to snap out of it. Cole was meandering in the back of the cave, where everyone was still asleep. 

Getting them out from under the covers was not easy. Solas woke up, acknowledged that they ought to be going, threw one look at the still asleep Trevelyan and closed his eyes again. Trevelyan opened eyes just as readily, lifted himself up a bit, even, then wrapped the blankets tighter around himself and dropped back down. 

“Sera?” Cassandra shook the elf’s shoulder, first gently, then more firmly. This one wasn’t even getting as far as opening her eyes. “Sera. Sera!”

“Sera, Sera, Sera, Sera, Sera, Sera, Serraa,” Cole intoned, swinging back and forth on his heels. “Sera. Seda. Seda. De da de da.”

“Shut it up!” Sera bolted awake and up, eyes still bleary but her teeth already bared. “I hate you! All of you!”

“Did you do that on purpose, Cole?” Cassandra couldn’t hold back a satisfied smile.

“No. My tongue wants to whistle on the start. Sssera. But it has to stay still or the r is a d. If you try, you can say it without moving your mouth, see? Serrra.” Cole hummed and whistled and Cassandra could practically feel the elf puffing up. Her disheveled hair was halfway there already, sticking out in every possible direction. “Say it enough and it stops being a word.”

The growly yell that followed had Trevelyan letting out an unhappy sigh and burrowing further into the pile of blankets. Cassandra was getting the hang of it, with one of them up.

“Sera, wake up the Inquisitor.”

Sera immediately rolled her eyes, mouth twisting firmly into refusal to do someone’s dirty work.

“Hawke is making breakfast and we are going dragon hunting after that.”

The eyes went from relenting straight into glinting as Cassandra spoke. She didn’t wait for the waking up to play out and went to brush the horses until it was time to eat.

* * *

“I’ve heard of you,” Sera turned to Hawke between two bites into her fish. “A Jenny in Kirkwall said you cleaned up.”

“Oh… there was something like that.”

“Said you liked sticking it to them. Even when you were a rich nob.” Sera took another bite, but that didn’t stop her from talking. “So, you left your stuff behind? Not going back, right? Cause we, like, cleaned it out. Your house, I mean. People needed things when shite went down. Or up.”

It looked to Cassandra as if Hawke paled at those words, but it was hard to tell when the smooth cavern walls reflected the warm light of the fire into a ghostly white. Trevelyan appeared fairly pale and subdued himself, though at least the cold hadn’t manifested. Hawke nodded after a while.

“That seems fair. Didn’t want it anyway.”

“I know, right? Me neither, who needs that inheritance crap?” Sera reached for another fish. “A Jenny took your family crest, by the way. Said it was hers.” 

* * *

“Not as buttoned-up as you play, are you?” Sera jabbed her in the ribs and lifted herself up to cackle in her ear. “You cagey” _jab_ , “boxed up,” _jab_ , “prissy romantic!” The stabbed and signed copy of _Tale of the Champion_ was being dangled before her eyes.

“Put this back! I’ll make you ride with the Inquisitor,” Cassandra threatened. “I’ll make you ride with Cole!”

The cackle turned into a hiss, then a scoff.

“If you can dislodge that thing from Hawke’s back.” Sera dropped back on the saddle, sneaked her arms around Cassandra’s waist and started kicking her boots. “Rose! No, wait. Robin’s egg.”

Maker, she wished they were on the hardest cobblestone road ever, to have the pesky chatter drowned in the thunder of horseshoes. The path to the clifftop where the high dragon nested was sadly all but nonexistent, the ground soft with rainwater and wilted grass.

“Is this another game?”

“Trying to guess the color of your underpants.”

Sera crept up again. The back of the breastplate probably wasn’t the most comfortable thing to lean one’s head against even underneath the cloak, but neither was the elf breathing into her neck.

“I don’t wear ‘underpants.’”

The hysteric squeal rang into her ear, then Sera pushed herself up by Cassandra’s shoulders and related the news to everyone.

They couldn’t get to the dragon soon enough.

* * *

It had been gruesomely satisfying. Cassandra panted with exhaustion as she admitted to herself that she was a Pentaghast after all. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of hunting dragons, not when it wouldn’t be brother and sister vanquishing the beasts of old together. 

She watched as Hawke lodged his knife between the scales on the dead dragon’s neck and let some blood fill a flask, handing it to Sera. The elf readily handed him another.

“Got about a dozen we can use. For research!”

Sera wandered around the head and let out a loud, grossed out “eww!” when she pulled one of her arrows out from a giant, half-lidded eye.

“I like how you see where the arrow will land without being there.” Cole spoke appreciatively as he joined her. “It’s falling and flying, free in flight, all the same, like looking through the Fade.”

“Leave me alone,” Sera grumbled and marched back to Hawke, dumping the rest of the empty flasks at his feet before scampering away. Another full vial. A dozen of what had cost Anthony his life. Cassandra approached, transfixed by Hawke’s bloodied hands.

“You are not a blood mage, are you?”

“No,” Hawke didn’t raise eyes from the vial.

“You said you would perform the ritual to bind Corypheus when you thought that was what the Wardens were trying to do.”

“You wouldn’t even know there was someone to accuse of that, Seeker, if I had done it five years ago,” Hawke sighed and turned to look at her. “Or to be grateful to, I suppose. We’d all be rotting in that Warden prison, no Corypheus for your Inquisition, no Anders for your Chantry.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Cassandra hurriedly said, without Hawke’s expressions changing. “I… Thank for healing me during the dragon fight.”

Loghain gave her a suspicious look as she practically ran toward the ruins where the others had disappeared. She stopped when she entered the only room with a partly preserved ceiling. The dragon’s treasure, of course. Trevelyan was kneeling in front of it, flanked by Sera on one side and Cole on the other.

“I think this dragon was older,” Sera was saying, rotating some figurine in her hands. “Less fight, more treasure. Always feels good to kill a hoarder.”

“You hoard a lot of stuff in that cabinet of yours,” Trevelyan noted, rummaging. Cole, in stark contrast to the two, was motionless, hugging his knees.

“You hoard a lot of stuff in your room, too!” Sera pocketed the figurine, then groaned. “Shoo! You didn’t fight!”

The raven appeared from between them and flew past Cassandra’s face. They turned to follow his flight, barely took any notice of Cassandra standing there, then turned back to the pile of treasures.

“Did you see what he took? I didn’t! You are both hoarders!” Sera pulled out half a javelin, then tossed it to the side.

“Perhaps you should both stop stealing from the treasures and wait for the Inquisition to allot them.” Cassandra finally stepped forth and the two lifted their heads to look at her, baffled. “What? This is stealing!”

“It belonged to a stealing dragon now dead,” Trevelyan said flatly, and Sera nodded, vigorously.

“It is still stealing! Just because the dragon stole it doesn’t mean it is free for grabs now.”

“I’m sorry!” Cole blurted from the side all of the sudden, and Trevelyan promptly abandoned looking at her to instead turn to him.

“Don’t mind her, Cole, we steal all the time,” a rather inappropriately delighted chuckle followed. “What did you need?”

“I stole a brooch from Baron Plucky,” Cole whined. “Josephine missed it.”

“He shouldn’t steal from Josephine! You did the right thing, Cole.”

Cassandra wanted to scream, but Cole wasn’t finished.

“Then I made Baron Plucky forget and it worked.” He turned to Cassandra. “I’m sorry! I think he took another brooch now, please let him have it.”

“I am not going to discipline a bird!” She let her hands fall to her sides, suddenly overwhelmed by the absurd turn this whole endeavor had taken. “Inquisitor, I am quite sure you can get whatever you ask for from this pile of treasure, there is no need to take it now.”

“We had almost everything from the last dragon delivered to Josephine anyway. She filed it as a _donation_ , even managed to identify and return some.” Trevelyan smiled smugly. “I never signed anything about delivering treasures, and dragons are not enemies of the Inquisition to have their stuff confiscated. Most of you have some agreement or other though.”

Cassandra stared incredulously, for the first time in her life wondering why the Herald of Andraste hadn’t been slapped with a long contract with a lot of convoluted fine print. Sera definitely had been made sign something, Cole doubtlessly had been forgotten. Solas? 

“Hawke and Loghain haven’t signed anything of the kind!”

“Right, which is why we got here first!” Sera looked at her with as much challenge in her eyes as if Cassandra were a dragon. “I call dibs on the dragon skull.”

“Hawke and Loghain definitely need to take some of the money here, for their journey,” Trevelyan said, as if that was the same thing as pilfering the treasures. “Then we’ll move the rest to Caer Bronach when we take it, to start fixing up the region. Oh, but I’m also donating some of it to Isabela to take to Rivain.” He _tsk_ ed and rolled his eyes. “Was only looking for useful enchantments anyway.”

Cole pulled out a dagger from the pile and weighted it in his hand.

“See?” Trevelyan relished in the moment. “We only take things we use.”

“Sera,” Cassandra tried one last thing, “don’t you believe in the Maker?”

“Some of it’s a bit off, but - wait, why? The stealing? You kill people!”

Maker give her strength.

* * *

“Seeker Pentaghast,” Loghain nodded at her. “What instructions to the soldiers did the raven fly with?”

“The raven flew off with a brooch!” She took a deep breath. “I’m sure the Inquisitor can call him back to deliver a message. We have to wait for some of our forces to get here to guard the treasure.”

“Your soldiers need to be careful still. The bandits must have seen the flashy magic from the keep. Either they barricade themselves better now that we are around, or they decide to attack for the dragon’s spoils.”

“Cole said they were scared.” Hawke frowned. “Then again there are fewer undead during the day.”

Sera emerged from the ruins, running straight to the collapsed dragon. She hopped on the tail and, without faltering in her pace, ran over every curve of it, and the back of the beast, to finally straddle the head and let out a nonsensical string of yells.

Cassandra felt the faintest of reliefs when Trevelyan didn’t follow and approached them with Cole in toe instead. Solas appeared from behind the ruins as well. Things moved along after that, even if the battle plan was developed under the accompaniment of Sera yodeling and bouncing on the head of the dragon. Nobody else seemed to mind.


	32. Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this work gets longer, I've found it harder to navigate, especially given the switching POV. This is the first chapter to have a title for the sake of clearer distinction, and I will be retroactively adding titles to the ones before it.

_2 Haring, 9:41_

Solas had found Ray on a small cliff, stubbornly tending to his patch of grass and refusing to look any other way. The spirits were uneasy, a multitude clamoring around the cliff. The ground and everything else surrounding it kept shifting, the pond randomly disappearing to leave behind a small meadow. Every once in a while Solas had to go around a puddle of blood, the edges of it darkened as if charred. He abandoned the idea of not interfering and forced through an image of serene spring.

The spirits latched onto it. They were many, but weak, or weakened. The pull from the rift underground must have worn them out, the haunted dreams of the villagers equally horrible places to visit. The shift in the atmosphere was noticeable enough to force Ray to look up and around, and soon Solas was standing next to him.

“Well done,” Solas nodded at the grass. “Though you might have found it easier to imagine if you weren’t making it grow straight out of the rock.”

“I wasn’t,” Ray shrugged. “I just forgot about it at some point. Too busy shutting out spirits. At least the pond is back now.”

The surface of the pond was like glass, as if the spirits would rather leave it alone, not playing along Solas’ image. Beyond it in the distance waves were breaking against the rocky sea coast.

“I think it was the darkspawn,” Ray said, looking at the pond along with Solas. “They came from a hole in the meadow, just a black mass. Why aren’t there actual darkspawn in the Fade, Solas? I’d only seen pictures… and then Corypheus.”

“Because darkspawn should have never come into the world. They are wholly alien to spirits… and spirits know better than to get close.”

“There were a shepherd and his daughter when the horde attacked. A mabari… and all the sheep. The flood came soon after. Before that there were armies, a war.” Ray’s eyes fell back to the patch of grass. “I’m so tired.”

Solas took the marked hand into his own.

“Close your eyes.”

Ray did so and smiled.

“I had fallen asleep in the Fade, I think, when my magic manifested. And once after that, in the estate garden. They thought the irrigation system was broken,” Ray chuckled. “Lucked out. I’ve tried to avoid it since. What is it that happens when you fall asleep in the Fade? I don’t remember those dreams.”

“It might have happened to you in Haven as well, after the Conclave.” Solas squeezed the hand lightly. “Don’t open your eyes. Relax.”

“Are you making me fall asleep?” Ray wiggled his fingers. “I don’t feel like I’m falling asleep.”

“It is not necessary. Just empty your mind of what’s here now.”

Solas closed his own eyes and delved deeper, looking for a peaceful realm throughout the ages. He opened them to a quiet, snowy forest.

“You can look now,” he released Ray’s hand and took a few steps ahead, wondering where they had arrived, searching for the spirit who commanded this place.

“It’s all snow,” Ray’s voice came from behind him, filled with amazement. He was looking up and down, then around himself, eyes wide. He pulled on a nearby branch and jerked it, and Solas took a closer look at the scenery.

It _was_ snow, but not snow piled on the barren branches. White leaves shook and rustled, then fell back into place when Ray let the branch bounce back. Beneath his feet was grass, white but alive. It crunched and squashed under their feet and then jumped back into shape. A four-winged bird flew to perch on a nearby bush, and it was white as well. The whole world was composed solely of the blackness of branches and the snow that made up everything else. 

They walked between the trees of this winter landscape, one that was winter only in its colors, and when Solas looked at Ray, the only color was in his skin. His shirt had been white to start with, but now so were the trousers and boots.

“Will it all melt if I cast a warming barrier?” Ray laughed in delight and pulled on a strand of hair. “Luckily my hair doesn’t need a makeover. Neither does yours!”

Too much Sera. Solas shook his head and walked faster as he glimpsed the end of the tree line. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the woman sitting there.

“A Dalish?” Ray whispered and Solas swallowed. They had landed way deeper than he had meant for them to.

The vallaslin was a deep red, the only color on the woman aside from the pale tint in her cheeks. Her clothes were layers upon layers of white silk, her hair fanning out for feet around her, black vines that mixed with the sprawling roots of the singular ancient tree she was sitting underneath.

“Solas?” Ray tugged at his sleeve, both of them still hidden behind a tree at the edge of the grove. “Is she a spirit? Can we go meet her?”

“Be careful,” Solas sighed and gently pushed Ray from behind the tree. “I will wait here and get us out if need be.”

To have walked into someone’s Uthenera of all places. But it was too early for her, and he didn’t even know who she was, nor whether she was still herself or hadn’t woken a long time ago to find herself trapped. Yet he couldn’t help the urge to witness this meeting between two people, neither of which knew what the other one was.

Ray was taking small, slow steps until he halted as the elvhen raised her head to look at him in surprise. She lifted herself and walked, her own steps quick and decisive, until the two were standing face to face.

“Aneth ara,” Ray stuttered, and Solas pressed himself closer to the tree. The woman, however, didn’t seem to care about noticing him as she lifted her hands to frame Ray’s face, no less amazed than Ray himself looked. She slowly pulled Ray’s head down and to the side, then tucked his hair behind an ear and laughed with pure delight. Her words flowed, too quickly, too old and too rich for the bare basics of Dalish that Ray knew. One hand slid across Ray’s face, tracing the lines of non-existent vallaslin, the other curled in his hair, then slid down his arm to close around the marked hand. He didn’t manage to sneak in more than his name, the only question he had understood, perhaps.

She didn’t know what he was, why he looked the way he did but she was grateful for the visit, or was it a present? She entwined their fingers and raised his hand. Were these new markings? Or was an unmarked one for _her_ , hers alone for her service as a high priestess?

Solas jumped into the clearing, materializing a staff just as the high priestess of Ghilan’nain buried both hands in Ray’s hair and locked their lips together.

He grabbed the faintly flailing marked hand and snapped them back to the spring image of Crestwood that still lingered.

* * *

“Um,” Ray looked down at the rock where his patch of grass had been, “she wasn’t a desire demon, was she?”

“No… something much older. I am sorry, I was careless.”

“She didn’t attack and she could hardly tempt me with anything if I barely understood what she was saying.” Ray chuckled. “Or do you think she would have tried to possess me?”

Solas shook his head and sat down. She hadn’t known what such possession was, and she’d thought she already possessed him.

“Perhaps you would have preferred to stay for a while,” Solas’ lips curved to match Ray’s grin. “A rare experience.”

“Well, no… not staying, I mean.” Ray stammered and set next to him. “I did this once, you know… with a spirit. I was really careful about it! I don’t think it was even Desire, perhaps Curiosity… anyway, it was exotic, but not really much different than a random person. Sorry,” Ray dropped his hands down, having spent most of his speech gesticulating, “you probably think this in very bad taste.”

“Not much different from a random person,” Solas shrugged, still smiling. “The elf in the snow would have been something different, I suspect.”

“She just got me by surprise. But that snow… it was amazing. Thank you for showing me that.” Ray swiped a hand over the rock. It quivered as soil covered it, and then shifted rather violently as the grass returned.

More willpower was going into what was less than five square feet than Solas had used on the rest of the whole scenery, but it was working nonetheless. It alerted the spirits as well, and a few made it closer, daringly rushing or bashfully flowing. None appeared to be hostile, although the kind of pointed flaunting one’s powers to affect change in the Fade usually did attract some of its more territorial denizens. Some of them were without a doubt what current Thedosian scholars would deem demons, now playing more like curious courtiers.

Solas couldn’t help a fond smile. Trevelyan was so young, young even by human standards. But beyond that were Solas’ own memories of children coming into realized desire and shaping the world for the first time; being acknowledging for the first time as new, bright existences, with limitless imagination and willpower behind it.

Now the spirits flocked to Ray, fascinated and blinded by him, and by the Anchor, unsure about this new figure, memories of the kind of magic long since forgotten but for the most remote of places. Ray seemed equally fascinated, and so palpably happy, Solas ended up smiling again.

“I should learn Elven instead of Orlesian. Elonna wasn’t allowed to speak it or teach it to us, can’t have us talking without the templars understanding what we’re saying. Or maybe Tevene… for all those books that I can’t really read.”

“Or for Dorian’s sake?”

Flustered as he had been, Ray hadn’t blushed throughout the talk of the elvhen, nor through that of his own experiences in the Fade. Now he did and Solas sighed with some disappointment. It didn’t go unnoticed.

“Why do you disapprove?” Ray huffed, with more surprise than irritation.

They rarely argued, if one could even call it that. Not the way he’d witnessed Ray argue even with Dorian. There had rarely been need for it. Equinor, a few quips about the Dalish. Solas had made the concessions there, but even that hadn’t gone unacknowledged or taken for granted. Ray listened to him. Yet he listened to Dorian as well, and Dorian and Solas were so different that no amount of reconciliation would ever bring them close.

“Do you want him, or do you want to be him?” 

He didn’t know when he had started seeing Ray as better than the rest. It must have been shortly before the first rolling wave of guilt at his own role, one that had turned harder than he’d anticipated. Perhaps it was the difference between watching a character gradually unfold to the experience of seeing snapshots through the Fade. 

Solas had called the Inquisitor subtle, at the dinner table a few weeks ago. He had meant it, but most, even Ray himself, had looked at him skeptically. Of those around the table only Josephine had clearly smiled her agreement. The Court Enchanter had nearly sneered, but contended with granting him a condescending and exasperated expression. Yet with all her mastery of the Orlesian Game she’d ended up being about as subtle to Ray as Sera was, doubtlessly sabotaging some of her plans for power.

Ray simply got to people. Getting on their nerves was only half of it, however. As much as Solas admired a rebellious streak, a vision for the future and sticking to principles so aligned with his own, it was the mutability that amazed him the most. Solas found himself wondering about people he’d never met— Trevelyan’s friends from the Circle, and wondering what they had imparted to him over the years of their friendship. There was something ingenuous to Ray’s nature that let him both draw from the people whom he chose to surround himself with, as well as draw them closer to himself. The first feeling that had come over Solas when he’d realized that alluring trap, during one of their walks through the Fade, had been panic. That had been followed by the delight of being so attentively listened to and emulated, and that had yet been joined by the disapproval of a jealous teacher who didn’t want to see his work spoiled by others.

“I want to read the books.”

Ray’s lips were pressed together and stretched in a smile that was in the middle of a bewildering axis of petulant and wry.

Solas laughed. He’d expected a rebuke or a serious explanation. Trevelyan was so young, and they had so little time. It wasn’t worth it making this the day the student rebelled against the teacher. He offered some more advice on working with the Fade and then took his leave to go on a walk of his own, his smile just a little bit teasing as Ray’s turned into a pout.

* * *

Solas opened eyes to the snowy forest again, only to find it smeared red. Smudged trails curved and flowed together like blood vessels, toward the clearing where the high priestess had been sitting. Every once in a while he saw the broken snowy bodies of strange birds, the edges around the cracks tinted red.

He stopped behind the same tree as before when he reached the end of the trail. Beyond the forest the smudges turned into a purposeful viscous glyph, the high priestess in the middle of it.

A spirit was lying on the ground, its nature now unrecognizable as it twitched and let out muffled gasps. Its head was lying on the elvhen’s folded knees, rivulets of blood trickling down its face over the newly carved vallaslin. The priestess shushed and dabbed the blood with her once white sleeve, fingers tracing and sealing the vallaslin and worming themselves into a facsimile of Ray’s hair. He should have killed her when she had latched onto Ray, he should have known that those like her would take what they found themselves wanting.

Solas stepped into the glyph, gathering focus and collecting what little magic was still floating in this place. She was weakened now, the blood binding weighting on the only thing that was keeping her alive. Before he could tell whether she recognized him as she raised her eyes from the spirit, Solas broke the last of the Fade away from her. The spirit echoed her last gasp as he threw itself over the limp body, shaking and shuddering with grief. The spell was going to fall apart soon, the intent holding the glyph ebbing away as the blood soaked into the snow.

“I am so sorry. You are free now.” He put his hand on the spirit’s bent back when the sobs had died down. “Let me help you. Do you remember who you were?”

The spirit burrowed frantic hands into the snow as the body shimmered away, a few keening sound escaping before he fell completely still.

“R—Ray?” The spirit whispered as he looked up at last, the marks on his face haunting. “She said that too… do you know me? That purpose… I don’t understand it.”

“No,” Solas gently walled off more of his mind to the spirit’s eyes. “You look like someone I know. Will you let me remove the blood from your face?”

He barely waited the prolonged moment it took the spirit to minutely nod, and cast, threading the vallaslin away. 

“You don’t have to keep this shape.” He stared into a face that was Ray’s, but only filled with yielding expectation for answers.

“She thought this a good shape,” the spirit spoke hesitantly, “is yours better?”

Solas chuckled as he flooded his mind with images of Ray playing with Baron Plucky, of him putting a hat on Cole’s head, of shaping the grass in the Fade. Of drawing, of sleeping halfway draped over the rotunda’s couch, of him swinging on a single leg of a chair on the mages’ battlements. The spirit absorbed all of it, his eyes filling with life and understanding.

“It is a good shape,” Solas said at last. “May I show you something else about it?”

This time the spirit nodded with enthusiasm and a smile, and Solas spun his memories to restore the short loose braid with the branch leaves still a rich deep green. He then substituted the white and bloodied vestments for the Rivaini naval clothes Hawke had worn to Skyhold, including the pirate’s hat.

“It is a happier shape this way.” Solas nodded as the spirit stopped pulling at the fabrics to compare colors. “It is the most fundamental of purposes.”

He couldn’t bear to leave for a long time after that, not before he’d passed on enough. Solas shielded his thoughts, meticulously arranging the world of which he wanted to show glimpses, yet the spirit swept through it, delving far and quickly. The forest around them shifted into color and sound, effortlessly. The realm had been claimed.

Solas didn’t think he had much joy and serenity in himself, but whatever scraps he could find, he gave. The spirit reflected them back at him tenfold. That so much power had remained after its consciousness had been scrubbed away down to bare existence pained Solas. He couldn’t ask what the spirit had once been, but it had been old and powerful, and far away from the reach of mortals. Few of their Dreamers had been able to step that far in. Unfortunately, this one time the attack hadn’t come from beyond the Veil.

“Thank you for giving me all of this,” the spirit’s smile was blissful.

Solas faltered. Two people with the same face that he had robbed of their former lives, and they thanked him. At least for the one here this could be a true new beginning, not a beginning of the end.

“It’s him, not me,” the spirit spoke with concern, “you are sad for him, why?”

“His realm follows different rules from the Fade’s. Will alone cannot overcome what’s around him.” Solas swept eyes around the landscape full of lushness and anachronism. Tarasyl’an Te’las shimmered in the distance, a lone tower brushing into the sky much higher than the Skyhold that now remained. Solas smiled at a memory of Ray tearing him from the frescoes to usher him to his quarters, all in order to show off the newly crafted stained glass windows— stylized mountains, light and birds. He gave that memory to the spirit, and then, because the tank of tin had been still in the room, showed him a glimpse of how windows were made.

“It must be a frustrating world indeed, where everything is crafted in its own way and with so much effort. But the joy from such a creation also seemed disproportionately intense.”

“Yes,” Solas swallowed and knew he had to go back soon. Time here barely flowed, but it moved faster at the edge of the Fade, where he’d left Ray. He would visit again, he promised. With some luck the spirit would listen to him and stay tucked in deep in his realm and far from the dangers of the waking world.

* * *

Solas hadn’t expected to find himself walking on snow again, let alone in a blizzard. He felt significantly fewer spirits than there had previously been here, but when he reached to show them something different than wind and snow, he was surprised to find all of them sticking to the image with resolute single-mindedness. He could still bring an easier path through, but eventually focused on locating where they were most concentrated instead.

It brought him to a cave, at last, one that looked like the cave they had arrived at the previous night. Rather than Loghain’s small fire and a few torches, however, this one was bright enough to illuminate a fairly large patch of snow in front of it. Solas entered and stepped onto a carpet of grass. The light came from a large fire in the middle of the clearing, mixed with the shimmer of a dozen wisps. Those noticed him, but Ray didn’t, too occupied rationing petting with his marked hand between no fewer than four cats. It took Solas walking next to them and sitting down for Ray to lift his eyes, and then he greeted without any surprise in his voice. He’d abandoned some of his consciousness, it appeared.

“It was ill-considered of me to intrude on your friendship with Dorian. You should seize any chance for a moment’s respite in times such as these. Allow yourself some happiness.” 

The dreamy expression ebbed away as Ray nodded, even if nothing else changed, inside or outside of the cave.

“What about me?” Ray suddenly asked. “I am a human mage, and the Anchor, I suspect, is elven. Does it upset you that it’s on my hand?”

“You are not what I expected,” Solas managed to utter after a long moment of wondering how to answer that question truthfully. “Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your… spirit?”

“A lot has happened to me because of it, but as for the magic itself… well, I’d never petted anyone in the Fade before.” Ray grinned and lifted one of the cats, who swayed in his hands with an irritated “mrow”. He placed it in his lap and the three others started wriggling to climb up there as well.

“How did you get them to be cats? Or the rest to keep up the blizzard outside?”

“I cheated with the blizzard,” Ray smirked. “I just cast my own a whole lot until everyone who was keen on the idea got behind it. If I can’t make two hundred mutilated sheep disappear, then at least they are covered up. Though I suppose they were truly gone once the snow covered them. Perks of the Fade.”

Solas chuckled and made himself more comfortable.

“And the cats?”

“This one,” Ray pointed at the cat sprawled dead center in his lap, “was some… fur ball I decided to pet. It had been lying there all the while I was doing the grass. Maybe it’s Sloth… or just a spirit who really likes cats. But it turned into one right after I petted it. The rest joined in later.”

“So you’ve made a few friends in the Fade now,” Solas smiled at the idyllic picture just as he felt the tug of someone waking him up.

The last thing he heard was a happy laughter, and as he hurriedly returned to the cave after a few brief seconds of wakefulness, Ray was gone. Three of the cats had wandered off, but the unlikely maybe-Sloth one was still there, curled up and asleep. Solas didn’t wake it, and for however long the thoughts held, it would be a cat.

* * *

_4 Haring, 9:41_

He watched as Cole clung to Hawke, reluctant to let go of the farewell hug. When he finally did, both looked frayed, and it was another couple of minutes of talking before Cole walked down the stairs and away, only to glue himself to the nearest group of soldiers who had just arrived at Caer Bronach. Solas kept watching as the spirit circled them, picking the ones to talk to, the weariness gradually giving way to contentment. Then he noticed Hawke watching as well and approached.

“Thank you for thinking of him, Serah Hawke.” Few seemed able to see past the awkwardness and mind-digging. Then again Hawke had a curious spirit connection. They had talked little, never just the two of them alone, and never about anything other than the Inquisition issues at hand.

“It must have been easier for him in the Fade,” Hawke muttered, “to give comfort so much more readily accepted in a dream.”

“Fortunately kindness does not require for the world to change to be offered. Cole is still himself, he is doing well.” Solas tried to get a firmer grasp on the Veil that surrounded Hawke, but it was a lot more difficult from this side. Apprehension, doubt. Dread, even. “You are a veritable magnet for spirits. Have your emotions always been this strong, or is it something that developed as a response to Justice?”

“Cole did say you knew a lot about spirits,” Hawke regarded him with more interest and with some wariness. “I know of the spirits around me, I wouldn’t be able to do healing without them. I’ve just always assumed they wanted more from me. There was a Rivaini mage we tried to get some answers from a few years ago,” Hawke shrugged. “She said all three of us were in danger. Not quite what we were after.”

“I am not here to tell you what you did was wrong.”

“You don’t know what I did in the first place,” Hawke’s smile crooked.

“I can imagine. You understand Cole. Perhaps in some ways better than I do. I have explored the Fade more than anyone alive, but the spirits who leave it… Their natures do not often survive exposure to the people they encounter.”

Yet whoever Justice was, he remained. Without him and Anders present, Solas could only guess how the three had come together. The pull Hawke had on Cole was significant, and Cole was still himself. Whether it was the hurt he was so uniquely capable of soothing, or curiosity, or the amazement of touching on such a relationship, it was just Cole. 

“Cole’s account of Justice is vastly different from that of Master Tethras.”

“You should check out Isabela’s, then,” Hawke quipped, more a taunt that a suggestion.

“I have,” Solas smiled pleasantly and enjoyed how the mocking expression gave way to nigh stunned one. 

“You must be _really_ interested in spirits,” Hawke finally said, once he seemed to have regained some composure. “None of those accounts are entirely true. Cole’s is very… immediate. Things weren’t always like this.”

“Have you considered the possibility that Justice gradually lost control over it, after spending years tangled together with the emotions of someone in love with you?”

“Have _you_ ever heard of controlled falling in love?” That wasn’t quite the same thing. “Solas, there were times when we would have very much appreciated some great scholar telling us just how it all fit together. All three of us were very ill-prepared for this. But not any longer. Unless you have any insight on how to remove the darkspawn taint from one’s blood.”

“I have not,” Solas painfully admitted. Sometimes it seemed this land was a collection of tragedies, one piled atop another. “I am sorry.”

“Waiting on a miracle there,” Hawke whispered, eyes falling shut. He turned to walk to the wall of the battlements and blinked a few times, slowly. Below, close to the shore, Ray lit the pyre that would take the dozen bodies of defeated bandits. The fire caught, high and sudden, the soaked branches unresisting to the magic.

“I wish him luck.” Hawke murmured and pushed himself away from the battlement to swipe eyes back over the courtyard. Loghain lifted his head and gestured for them to be going.

“Fiona and the rest of her people will be fine. Mages across most of the north are getting organized as well,” Solas said, “even though most are too quick to accept peace without the Chantry having spoken yet.”

“I’m no stranger to Circle mages’ disdain for apostates turning them fugitives,” Hawke smiled wanly, “and the victories have been few and far apart. Still, they more than make up for it.”

“Meaningful rebellions rarely come from the most downtrodden. The guards put in place to keep them down make sure that they only rise when all seems lost and bow down for survival again at the smallest of compromises. It is happiness that leads to true desire for independence. One can easily grant a reprieve from suffering. It would have cost little but for the templars’ fanaticism.”

“Sounds a lot more flowery than simply saying that we made the choice for everyone.” Hawke chuckled.

“The choice was there for them,” Solas noted. “Rebel or stay subservient to a system that had given itself the right to kill them. Fiona got lucky when she placed her people’s fate into the hands of the Inquisition.”

“Fiona did well,” Hawke sighed and turned to go. “We so rarely managed to save children. I regret not coming over to Ferelden sooner. King Alistair once invited me… of course, that was in different times.”

“The mages are allies to the Inquisition, not part of it. They will be strong enough to stand up for themselves when this is over.”

Hawke might have nodded as he spoke, but all of him soon disappeared down the stairs to the courtyard, and then through the gate of the keep. Cole noticed too late.

* * *

A breathless giggle, followed by a “What in— Ah!” greeted them as the young couple hurriedly jumped from the rug in front of the tavern’s fireplace and quickly started pulling clothes into place.

“Please don’t tell anyone!” The man’s face had turned white rather too quickly for the flush to disappear, leaving him with red splotches all over as he was holding his tunic wrapped around himself. The woman was just red, sneaking glances at them.

“I wasn’t spying!” Cole turned around, only to find himself face to face with the Seeker, who stepped to the side to look at the couple accusingly.

“Do you have any idea how close to the bandits you were? How did you even get past them?”

“There weren’t any when we got here,” the woman offered.

“Lonnie’s parents think I’m bad for her. They’d have a fit if they saw us.” The man looked at their faces, likely searching for the most sympathetic one. Sadly, Cole was still turned away from him. “You won’t tell people we were here, will you?”

“My lips are sealed,” Ray offered at last, and Cole shot Solas a beaming smile while Cassandra grunted.

“Inquisitor!”

“Your Worship!” The couple exclaimed, starting to explain themselves over each other.

“They want me to marry the baker’s boy in the next town. I’ve never even met him!”

“I have. He’s got the face of an ox. And the smarts,” the man said. “Thank you, your Worship! We didn’t know it was you who was moving in, we promise! We could try the caves.”

“You hate spiders!” Lonnie pouted.

“You’d better get into the keep,” Ray spoke. “We are going to drain the lake and we don’t know what we’ll find.”

“Get a proper room there too,” Sera giggled, “with a bed. Makes things so much better.”

“But you and Isabela did it on Cabot’s bar,” Cole turned to her. “He wasn’t happy when someone mentioned it to him.”

He swiftly dodged a punch.

“It wasn’t me!”

* * *

“He wants to go back, he can’t sleep and he will have no one to protect him. He shouldn’t be away.” Cole had answered the single inquiry Solas had made about Hawke, form more hunched than usual. Solas had let go and Cole had gone to make his rounds.

“You didn’t know the custard would bring the cats. It made everything different. No one slipped, but the tails were like little people, bobbing as they lapped it up.”

“Why does it keep _talking_ at me?” Sera hissed as they walked along the newly uncovered coast. “Blargh. I hate muck. It stinks like— Eww! There’s bones in it!”

“The waters washed in too fast. No way out, a wall of water. Like going to sleep.” Cole swayed away from Sera unhappily and stopped next to Ray instead. “We have to help them, they got trapped.”

The ground was covered in broken plates, pieces of furniture and rotten rags. Most of the bones were scattered and bared, but some still clung together, covered in viscous slime. The horrible stench permeated the air around them, as the still waters had left behind the deaths gone undisturbed for ten years.

Ray gave Solas quite the same look he’d had as he had talked about the blighted ground around Three Trout Pond. Then he moved away, pulling Cole along, and unlatched his staff.

As the group moved toward the remains of Old Crestwood, the coast burned, the sharp smell of sulfur and oil edging over the rot.

“The water didn’t drain as far as the rift, we have to look for those caves.” Rain had started drizzling again and Ray sighed as the barrier around him dissolved. “Another rift is close by.”

They dispatched of the few demons that came bursting through it, and of the two feeble skeletons that had lain still until then. Solas thought back at the chaotic twisting of the Veil when Ray had closed the first small rift on the way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. A few stray pulls yet remained in his casting, but the tear closed gracefully, without causing any further ripples. A few wraiths, halfway through, at the very edge of crossing, floated around them as the Veil calmed. Sera shrieked and readied an arrow.

“They won’t attack,” Cole ventured, “they are calmer now, more at peace not being pulled through.”

“Piss off, Creepy! You go first then,” she jabbed him with the recurve of her bow, “go greet your demon litter kin.”

Cassandra let out a frowning huff just as Cole obligingly ran ahead, joyously greeting the spirits who ignored him as they floated past.

“What?” Sera stomped her foot, still holding onto the bow. “Look at him! Fine, you go ahead too. Seekers first, whatever.”

Sera seemed prepared to stick with Ray until she noticed that fewer wraiths gathered around Cassandra and Cole as they floated to the Anchor instead. Solas smirked as she fell further back and found herself next to him, sulking.

“Not my frigging fault you’re all freaks, innit?”

“Perhaps there are still arcane gifts lying dormant within you as well, Sera. I can help you gauge your potential.”

“Shut up, Droopy-ears, I have to sleep at night!”

“Sleeping would give you the chance to explore the Fade. I could introduce you to spirits.”

Sera gaped at him horrified, her eyes growing impossibly larger.

“You’re messing with me on purpose!” She laughed nervously and clutched at her bow, then added, hopefully, “Right?”

“Why would I do that? It is not as though I know _who_ filled my bedroll with lizards.”

A laudable puff of air left her throat, in what looked like utter relief.

“Heh. Fair point! That was pretty good.” She pulled the hood of her cloak all the way down her face. “Not looking. Not smelling. Not listening. Thinking of normal things like… oh, no, what’s this rubbish?”

They had been walking straight through dilapidated houses, the few remaining planks on the roofs providing little protection from the rain. Ray hadn’t stepped out of his way to engage the stray demons and corpses who were far enough from the group, the only spell he’d cast being the flammable liquid that soaked into the slippery ground. Now he had stopped, together with Cole and Cassandra, before a spirit who didn’t seem about to attack them.

“Ugh. Compassion. Did I ask your name?” The spirit scoffed and Cole hung his head dejectedly with a muttered apology. “Silence! Soft virtues! I am more. _I_ am Command. Let the other one talk.”

Ray turned to Cassandra for some reason, perhaps because the spirit spoke with the voice of a woman. Command, however, continued to stare at him.

“What of you? I felt your coming. Is there something alike in us?”

“I’ve only just met you.” Ray gave first Solas and then the Anchor a quick look.

“What does that matter? How can you not already see what I am? I will not be denied. I refuse to leave until something obeys my orders!”

If this one was going to have its purpose denied, then it was readily going to be on its way to Pomposity. Neither the earth, nor the sky would shift to accommodate it.

“Then I feel compelled to help you.” Solas startled as Ray’s voice turned to warm politeness. “I pledge myself to your service.”

Not without some protest from Sera especially, and from the Seeker, at least until she heard that Command wanted them to kill a demon in the caves they were heading for anyway.

“What if it wanted to command you into being possessed, you idiot?” Sera walked backwards from the spirit up the hill to the entrance to the tunnels.

“I’m not a spirit,” Ray shrugged. “I don’t have to actually feel compelled.”

Solas chuckled and that would be the last any of them would laugh on this day as they descended into the caverns underneath Old Crestwood. He hadn’t been wrong. This world was made of tragedy upon tragedy.


	33. Anniversary

_8 Haring, 9:41_

The second dragon head wasn’t causing any less clamor in the courtyard than the first one had, and the sun wasn’t even up yet. Leliana watched as Sera dragged Trevelyan out of the main entrance, straight through the crowd and to the trophy. After a louder round of cheering people quieted down, but not quite enough for Leliana to hear what was being said. Whatever it was, it made Sera very happy and the new center of attention. The multitude got louder again and that was when Trevelyan looked up and saw her at the balcony. They needed to talk, and soon, before gathering around the war table. Her agents were hers to command, but she would need more than a sneaky party, she would need soldiers.

She gestured slightly, and Trevelyan nodded, only to turn around and disappear under the archway leading to the kitchens’ yard and the stables. They really needed to work on the whole communicating procedure. She moved away from the living quarters and to the rookery. Leliana never prayed at the small chapel near the gardens. As she knelt down in her secluded corner she had to chase away curses and fight the urge to bury her hands in her hair. She had to push down all the dread, or she risked breaking on the following day. On the anniversary of her new life she would be without the most important people in it.

“What was happening in the courtyard?” She stood up and turned to Miller as she made for the table.

“His Worship… well, he said the dragon trophy was Sera’s. They are going to put it on the roof outside of her window. Sera was… bargaining with the mages about taxidermy and glass eyes. The Iron Bull is not going to be happy about this.”

The Ferelden Frostback’s head had ultimately found its way to Redcliffe, and probably wasn’t going to spend a lot of time in the Town hall before ending up in Teagan’s castle.

“He is on his way here,” the scout added. “The Inquisitor, I mean. And this is the last of the Crestwood reports. The region is stabilized.”

He handed her the papers, a note in an unfamiliar hand on top of the stack.

“The Inquisitor made a copy of the Mayor’s confession. The original should reach King Alistair soon.”

Leliana wondered briefly if it had been unwillingness to judge on Trevelyan’s part. As king and a Warden who’d been through a Blight Alistair seemed a better fit indeed, but he and Anora had their hands full with just Denerim. The Inquisition had rooted out a few Venatori spies from the castle, but they couldn’t keep a close watch on everything, nor were they truly welcome to do so. Leliana doubted any resources would be getting thrown into pursuing Crestwood’s former mayor.

“Show him to the balcony when he arrives,” she took the papers and a lute that had sat propped against a wall for weeks now, and moved to the narrow door.

Once outside, she pulled down the shawl from her head, sat down on the bare stone and plucked on a string. She’d missed this. If it weren’t for Trevelyan coming through the door himself, Leliana would have gone back to praying.

She was about to ask if she could remain where she was on account of him being the most under-dressed she had seen him since the first day, but before she could speak, he dropped down in the opposite corner of the balcony.

“Blackwall is still being evasive about Grey Warden matters,” he said. “If he’s with them, then he’s playing the reverse game. Not getting one bit panicked over the Calling.”

“His story doesn’t match my information,” Leliana pulled a letter from a stack of papers. “Blackwall was in Orlais during the Fifth Blight. We could interrogate him, but we are already letting all kinds of people join us. If he is indeed a sleeper agent, we are better off pretending that we buy his story.”

“He hasn’t tried to kill me so far… quite the opposite in fact. While it was him who asked to join, we sought him out on your request.”

“That’s true,” Leliana sighed. “Perhaps he spoke the truth at least as far as him having lost contact with the other Wardens for some time. I’ll continue having him watched.”

Blackwall at least didn’t seem bothered by not being out on missions with the Inquisitor very often. Even The Iron Bull showed more annoyance at being left out, and acting better than a Ben-Hassrath spy wasn’t an easy feat. Unless he wanted to be in Skyhold, for some reason. Probably not to carve his wooden toys.

“You should still take him with you if there’s a chance you’d be fighting darkspawn. We were lucky the dwarven road you wandered into was blocked.”

Trevelyan grinned at that, eyes suddenly glinting. The darkspawn had obviously disappeared from the corridors at some point, perhaps not too long ago, seeing as bodies had finally started decomposing. The caverns could be put to use for the Inquisition, but the people who’d have to clear out the rest of the corpses would keep a morbid tale to tell.

“There were nugs in it. Cassandra said you used to keep one as a pet.”

“Schmooples was another present,” Leliana allowed herself a smile at the memory of them running through Orzammar Commons, nug-wrangling. She had only needed mention how adorable she found the little pig-like creatures for Aileas to bring one to her the next day. A clean and plump one, his coat of bristles smooth and shiny.

“From Amell? So you…”

“She is my love,” Leliana said after a second of contemplation, and then quickly added, before the delighted surprise in Trevelyan’s eyes had time to turn into questions, “She left to the west months ago to look for a cure for the Calling.”

“The real one?” Leliana nodded. “What happens then, why does it mean a Warden’s time has come?”

With stone and wood all around her Leliana looked up skyward. Trevelyan had already learned some of the Grey Wardens’ secrets, and he’d likely get to know even more. They would need to involve Fiona, too, at some point.

“We went into the Deep Roads during the Blight… you might have read the stories about Amell meeting a Paragon, about how she crowned a king? You haven’t read the story of Ruck, because it was never told. He was a dwarf who had lived in the Deep Roads for five years, feeding on darkspawn corpses. The Taint hadn’t completely taken his mind yet, he knew what he was, he remembered his mother.”

Leliana pressed her lips together, reliving the scene of the maddened decaying dwarf. How he had hopped around, circling Aileas and calling her “pretty lady” as she stared at him in horror and disgust.

“Loghain told you of the nightmares that precede the Calling, but _that_ is what he didn’t tell you, the reason Wardens go to fight to the death in the Deep Roads before the Taint takes over. Before they turn into ghouls.”

“We saw Felix in the future like that… empty.” Trevelyan whispered and gave her one of those strange looks he had for her when Redcliffe would come up. “What happened to Ruck?”

“She killed him,” Leliana simply said. “After she bought from him an ancient Chantry silver etching to give me as a present.”

Trevelyan blinked and let out a strained laughter when Leliana dangled the round crest before his eyes.

“I never said she knew what was appropriate,” she chuckled as her eyes misted over. “She swore that she would never let the Taint take her like that. That she’d find any loophole to escape what being a Warden means. But if she couldn’t…”

_”Then I will go as deep as I can and get the vilest of demons to possess me!” Aileas yelled in Wynne’s face. “So that when the darkspawn finally overwhelm it, there would be nothing left of me for them to take! If I’m to become a monster, it will be of my own choosing, not a crazy ghoul or an incubator for the rot!”_

“Aileas always had nightmares, and they only got worse with time. Sometimes she would leave and fail to write for a week or two, and then I could only wait and pray she hadn’t done anything too reckless because she thought it unbearable. Or that she’d ask me to…” Leliana’s fist closed around the lute’s neck, the strings digging into her fingers.

She had run every possible scenario through her head, the lack of definite news both a blessing and a curse. Anything could have happened. Even Shale wasn’t immortal, immune to the blight, to blood magic and to general despair as she was.

* * *

_”I don’t want to go,” Aileas muttered into her pillow. “I don’t want to be among Wardens anymore.”_

_They had returned from Weisshaupt three days ago and Aileas had never left their apartment once since. The Warden reception had been grimmer and more solemn than Leliana had anticipated. They didn’t have anything to go by for receiving one who had slain an Archdemon._

_”You are going to be an arlessa,” Leliana started layering one strand of hair over another, for no reason other than to hear Aileas’s satisfied hum. “You will have a castle, and the jewel of the north for your city. The people will love you, you are their heroine.”_

_”I bargained for the girl, not for Alistair’s surly face in court or the Taint all around me.”_

“Why didn’t you go to Amaranthine with her?”

It was really more of an accusation than a question. Sometimes Trevelyan really knew the most pointed thing to ask. Leliana palmed the silver disk and closed her eyes.

“It is hard when your lover is a hero, even an unwilling one. Harder still to know which friend to put first. Tomorrow it will be sixteen years from the day on which the woman who became Divine Justinia saved me. When I met her, she was Mother Dorothea. I was at my lowest: broken, lost. And she saved me. I was called to an audience with her and I owed her that, so I didn’t leave with Amell. After that…”

Leliana stood up and lowered her gaze to the gardens. Skyhold was like a small town by now, almost every trace of the abandoned hold vanished. She had stood on a balcony like that in the palace of Denerim, devastation from final battle of the Blight visible as far as the eye reached. She had witnessed the battered walls of Vigil’s Keep when two years after the darkspawn attack money had still been too scarce to start repairs. 

What if she had convinced Aileas to stay as Court Enchanter and see peace return? What if she had gone to stand by her in Vigil’s Keep as Amaranthine rebuilt?

“There was always something. I should have gone with her then, and I should have gone with her when she left for the cure. I should have been the one by her side instead of letting her always stay by mine.”

“It should be the same thing,” Trevelyan said softly, risen to stand next to her.

“Yet it rarely is. Even in the Circle you chose to stay when you could have left.”

A pang of guilt shot through Leliana. She had entertained the thought that Trevelyan’s friends being dead was convenient, that he’d be more willing to stay with the Inquisition if there was nothing else left for him. It had worked, too, far beyond her hopes. He’d taken new roots, gotten close to new people, and he looked upset and overwhelmed less and less often. Some of the melancholy still lingered, but sometimes it was barely noticeable underneath newfound happiness.

Leliana had thought it good, for everyone involved. Now she found herself closer to this than ever before, and she dreaded having to find _another_ new life.

“Aileas never stayed to see hope return to the people she helped. She did right by Ferelden, she did right by Amaranthine, and I was never there to tell her to stay, to remain the hero.”

“If she didn’t want to stay there in the first place, why are you blaming yourself for this? Wasn’t she happy being with you?”

“You are standing here now,” Leliana smiled at him, “as the lord of Skyhold. One word from you was enough to sway a war, and that won’t be the end of your influence. Whether coincidence or providence, you must realize that there is more than simply existing.”

“I wanted us safe and happy! Not just existing. If Amell wanted that with you, then why…”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Leliana interrupted him. Yet Aileas had been just nineteen and so utterly devoted to keeping the first person she had been allowed to hold onto. “I have a favor to ask of you, Inquisitor. We are moving agents and some soldiers west to open a channel for communication with Hawke and Loghain, and to provide support. I would like to request that should we have enough people in the area, we send a group further northwest.”

“Of course we will do that.”

Just like that she had the open power of a small army.

* * *

_9 Haring, 9:41_

_”Atrast tunsha, salroka.”_

Leliana watched the rivulets of Antivan plum brandy trickle down the stone and into the small cracks they encountered. She poured a glass like that every year on the anniversary of Tug’s death, trying to keep in her memory everything her friend had been, and to figure out what she had no knowledge of.

A shadow fell over her and she lifted her eyes. He looked so much as he had sixteen years ago. His face as slim and delicate as it had been then, hands with slender fingers resting by his side.

“I didn’t think you would come.”

Sketch shrugged, eyes on the stone. They didn’t speak another word as they left the garden for the rookery.

Leliana signaled to one of her people to bring another glass as she placed Tug’s in front of Sketch and poured more of the brandy in it. Reminiscing was hard with him sitting opposite of her. She had lost a friend and had gained salvation on this day sixteen years ago. As she had fled to the Fereldan countryside, full of hope, they had parted ways. Sketch hadn’t gained anything, he’d only lost, and he had wanted to grieve. Their letters had turned ever shorter and colder. 

The Blight had interrupted their correspondence, meager as it had been, but afterwards Leliana had written a long and warm letter to him. She had been back to Orlais, with Amell at her side, and the whole dazzling world had seemed evidence of the Maker’s blessing. Sketch had replied with a single word, ‘Good’. She had never been able to tell whether that had been acknowledgment of more than the short postscript about Marjolaine’s death. She had sung embellished verses of the adventures they’d had together, then, and his next letter had been a scathing paragraph, most easily summarized as ‘shut up’.

“I was surprised when I saw your name on one of Fiona’s reports,” Leliana said when the awkward silence grew too long and the brandy was gone from Sketch’s glass.

“Why?” He shrugged and refilled his glass himself. “You knew my opinion on the Circles even then.”

“You had something organized, we could have worked together. The months of chaos…”

“It took those months for the Chantry to even publicly take a stance. You know how the last shadowy operation went, as I’m led to believe you were actually there.” He raised his hand to silence her as he continued his dispassionate delivery. “I am sorry for your friend’s death. But you should be the last person to wonder why I didn’t seek to join you two on yet another round of the Grand Game.” 

“I… see,” Leliana handed him the letter she had put in her pocket this morning, hopeless as it had seemed. Politics was off the table, perhaps for the best. “This was for you. It was intercepted and returned to me by one of my agents, but by then the rebellion had broken out and I’d lost your whereabouts.” 

Sketch took the blood splattered paper with a cold frown and skimmed through it. Leliana hadn’t often thought back at the contents in the last few months. The curiosity about deciphering Tug’s cryptic etchings had fallen between the cracks of too many other problems.

“It is still all about secrets with you, isn’t it?” he folded the letter and handed it back to her. “You ask for my help with some vague motivation that I might have once been a Tevinter agent. Then, I would guess, _your_ agent needs to retrieve this because whether true or not, someone would have used this to undermine you, or the Divine.”

He reached for his staff and propped it against the table. At the base of the head, below the enchantment, was embedded the grip of Tug’s axe. The etching had been filled with lyrium and it read clearer than ever _’The Stone lives beneath Orlais’_ in Common, and, below it in smaller dwarven script _’Mathas gar na fornen pa tot isatunoll’_. 

_I regret the sacrifice of my kin, but it means we will find our…_ Our what?

“Have you figured out what the last word means? A pattern, anything? _Isana_ is their word for lyrium, singing stone, but…”

Maybe Dagna would know something about it.

“I don’t know what it means any more than you do. Something very dwarven just as my scribbles were very elven.” Sketch pulled himself up by his staff. “We never talked about fallen empires, it wasn’t about that between us.”

* * *

Mother Giselle’s voice sounded from the terrace below, a distant echo that got louder and clearer as the seconds passed.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing.”

“I’m being clucked at by a hen, evidently.” Dorian’s reply came even louder, clipped and angry.

Leliana _tsk_ ed. Mother Giselle’s getting into Dorian’s affairs again made her question how reasonable the cleric was. She had tried to get rid of him once already, and failed. To take the fight directly to him, publicly at that, wasn’t a wise move.

“Is that the altus Fiona mentioned,” Sketch asked, leaning on the railing.

“You know your Tevinter accents well,” Leliana smiled and stood up to approach, a few feet to the left. Dorian’s alcove wasn’t visible from where Sketch was standing.

“I’m a seasoned traveler,” Sketch smiled with a guarded amusement that reminded her of the young man from so many years ago. “I think she’s in for trouble.”

Leliana followed his eyes to the bottom of the rotunda and smirked. Solas was looking up from his chair, and Trevelyan must have been reading on the couch, for he was standing next to him, book still opened in his hands. Solas was perhaps only annoyed at the loud voices and the hum of whispers that had awakened and filled the pauses in the quarrel. Trevelyan, however, promptly closed the book, left it on the table and disappeared from Leliana’s view.

“Oh, that she is. Come,” she grabbed Sketch by the hand to whisk them to a better situated spot. Three of her scouts had already inched closer and were signing between themselves, placing bets.

The two knelt next to some crates.

“Your glib tongue does you no credit.” Mother Giselle’s spoke gravely, and Leliana dragged Sketch further around the arch of the terrace.

“You’d be surprised at the credit my tongue gets me, Your Reverence.” Dorian crossed his arms at the same time Mother Giselle dropped hers to her side. She had noticed Trevelyan coming up the stairs.

“Oh!” The cleric’s voice turned into a soft laughter. “I…” She stopped, and for a few seconds nobody spoke, leaving only the whispers around them. Dorian must have noticed Trevelyan when he moved to his side, but he didn’t move from his pose.

“What’s going on here?”

It was too bad they couldn’t see his face from where they were crouching, but they probably weren’t missing much so far. It was still his polite voice. Slightly more inquisitive. Trevelyan was the _Inquisitor_ after all.

“It seems the revered mother is concerned about my ‘undue influence’ over you.” Dorian’s voice had dropped in volume, but not quite so in pointedness.

“It _is_ just concern.” Trevelyan turned his head from Dorian to Mother Giselle. “Your Worship, you must know how this looks.”

“How what looks?” Now his voice had gone sharper and Leliana held back a chuckle, but let a smirk through. Sketch was looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

“You might need to spell it out, my dear.”

Mother Giselle followed Dorian’s half-sardonic, half-tired advice eagerly enough, bringing out her excellent arguments about what an impression a Tevinter at the Inquisitor’s side made, and how that opinion of the masses was based on centuries of evidence. Not a good idea for a cleric to be bringing up the notion of centuries to Trevelyan.

“The concerns of the Chantry are no concern of the Inquisition, Mother Giselle.”

“With all due respect, you underestimate the effect this man has on the people’s good opinion.”

Trevelyan fell silent, long enough for Dorian to stiffen, then relax again, as a few stray whispers echoed around them.

“Mother Giselle, this is not a battle you want to pick.”

Sketch snorted next to Leliana, too loudly. Luckily the tower had turned just as loud after what seemed to have been Trevelyan’s final judgment on the situation. It could have been more chilling, Leliana thought, though with all his pleasant politeness gone, the flat tone had made for a noticeable enough difference. Mother Giselle hurried to make her apologies and withdraw. A ‘humble forgiveness from them both’, although she hadn’t once address Dorian directly after Trevelyan’s intervention.

“Don’t listen to her. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“She does, actually. There are rumors, and her concern is well-meaning… if misplaced.” Dorian’s voice was calmer, and, unfortunately, lower. Leliana huffed and dragged Sketch two more steps until they were almost directly above the alcove.

“It doesn’t matter!”

“Listen to you” Dorian laughed and finally took a step closer to Trevelyan. “It’s good to be the Inquisitor.”

“Not now!” Leliana hissed at Sketch, who was nudging her in the side and grinning. “What is it?”

He leaned closer, and snorted again first, right into her ear.

“It’s going to be spring for the mages soon.” Another huffed laughter slid by her cheek and then Sketch was pressing against the railing again.

“… it does make me wonder. _Is_ my influence over you… undue?”

Dorian moved yet further toward the alcove and disappeared from Leliana’s sight almost completely. Sketch wiggled his eyebrows at her and stood up, bending over the railing to watch. If either would look up at this moment, they’d see him. Then again, they wouldn’t be looking up, and with that thought Leliana herself stood up.

“No, not undue at all.”

Trevelyan wasn’t often teasing and mischievous, but now his voice betrayed a fair bit of both, and Leliana smiled to herself. She was going to win.

* * *

Coin exchanged hands, by now _seven_ scouts smirking or shaking heads in the rookery. Back at the table Sketch was looking at her with what seemed to be all the mockery of youth.

“You should have known better,” his voice was surprisingly soft although his lips remained curled up at the rim of his glass.

Yet it had been Dorian who’d run away after landing a kiss, one public enough, at last. There had even been a few cheers and Trevelyan had stood there, ridiculously still and blushing.

“Maker, he’s still not moving.” Leliana took her drink and went to the railing.

In all fairness, Trevelyan _had_ moved and was now clutching his own railing. He looked down, briefly, and Leliana’s eyes followed, but if Solas had once looked up, he’d gone back to his book now. Trevelyan looked up then, straight to her, and she frowned.

“ _You lost me a bet,_ ” she mouthed, and watched him squint and mouth back a ‘What?’, as likely a confused as a defensive one. Then he turned his back to her, walked into the alcove and demonstratively sat down in Dorian’s chair, picking the topmost book from a stack close by. The moments rolled by amidst whispers and chuckles, but Trevelyan neither looked up from the book, nor turned a single page.

“I think I will go rescue him. There are still some things to be discussed with Fiona and the rest.” Sketch had walked to her, staff in hand. “ _Atrast tunsha, salroka._ ”

* * *

Leliana knocked their signal and waited, wondering what effect the day’s events could have had. Her eyebrow twitched as Josephine’s voice came, muffled and distant, but positively dripping with self-satisfaction. Time to pay up, then. She entered.

Josephine’s private quarters weren’t all that different from her office. At least the central part of it was pretty much a mirror image with its large desk. Leliana stopped next to it and lifted the rose and yellow stained glass bowl. She dragged the palm of her hand over the wooden surface and sent the wisp scurrying a few inches after Trevelyan’s Harrowing ring. Leliana dropped the bowl over it after a few seconds, the light turning warmer again.

The couch was a bit more informal than the one for the guests, broader and softer-looking, and it was also covered with papers. Two clothed mannequins flanked a vanity at the back of the room, the bed tucked in the opposite corner. There was a new drawing pinned to one of the Inquisition banners on the wall, somewhat alarmingly of a rather elaborately rendered white spider. ‘Snowball’, it read at the bottom of the paper, in ornamental (and hairy) letters.

“Leliana-a-a?” Josie’s voice cadenced again, and Leliana moved to the vanity and the small turn that led to the washroom niche. She dangled the pouch with coins as soon as she came face to face with Josephine, who poked one foot out from the foamy bath and wiggled her toes. Leliana draped the leather string between two toes and Josephine’s smirk dissolved into a giggle.

“Yes, you won,” Leliana crossed her arms, “but I got to watch.”

“Watching too much is what got you your loss,” Josephine stretched forwards to pick the money. “I told you he was patient.”

“I wouldn’t call it exactly patience.”

It was more akin to Aileas’s contentment with any one achieved level of intimacy. It had left Leliana frustratingly stuck with Aileas getting as far as to rest her head in the bard’s lap to have her hair stroked. For no less than two months. Eventually Leliana had started stealing secret kisses, every now and again, and ultimately in front of the rest of their companions.

Of course, in the current setup it had actually been Trevelyan who’d done the stealing of kisses, so Leliana had concluded that he’d be the one to dare a public one as well. For whatever reason Dorian had seemed even more adamant about being content with what he had, and Leliana couldn’t be sure whether it had been Mother Giselle or Trevelyan himself who had finally made him snap. Of course that would mean…

“All right, I concede that he is _more patient_ than Dorian.” She frowned at the winning smile Josephine flashed at her. “Do you want me to wash your back?”

“Oh, you still think you’d get some of the chocolates from my wager?” Josephine continued smirking as she rose to sit at the edge of the bathtub. “What makes you think I haven’t eaten them already? Or shared them with Ray a long time ago?”

“If you two were working together, then I will take back conceding your victory!” Leliana swiped the lathered cloth down Josephine’s back. “You weren’t, were you? You are not actually _that_ close, to discuss such matters.”

Josephine’s shoulders shook with muffled laughter.

“I mean it, Josie. I know I shouldn’t have meddled back in Haven, but even with that you could have had him three times over in all that time. Ask him to draw you like this, for example,” She lowered the cloth to where the stone dented Josephine’s buttocks. “He’s still only a man.”

Josephine hummed.

“It is actually a rather nice feeling, Leliana, to have someone as affectionate as him, who isn’t looking to the romantic, let alone erotic aspects. Quite like having a little brother. One who is magnitudes more willing to work and listen than either Laurien and Antoine have ever been.”

“He’s only a year younger than you,” Leliana rolled her eyes. “Besides, you would be right where courtly romance is concerned, but he did rather do everything by the book with Dorian. No, don’t laugh,” Leliana huffed. “He took him on a ride, caught him some game, gave him flowers, and protected him from a Chantry dragon today.”

“Hand me the bathrobe, will you?” Josephine stood up and stepped out of the tub to remove the lather from her skin with a towel. Once she put on the robe and pulled the pins from her hair, she gave Leliana a far softer smile. “If I got anymore involved, I wouldn’t be able to catch a minute’s sleep every time he left Skyhold on some mission.”

She walked into the room and gathered the papers from the couch.

“Could you see to one messere Treville not making it to the peace talks? He is rather determined to attend, at present.”

“Oh,” there was still a month until the ball at Halamshiral. “I will arrange for something. Who is he, any relation to Trevelyan?”

“Yes, he is the head of a once Nevarran branch of the family. The territory has been Orlesian for two generation now, which is not quite long enough for them to get a good standing in court. He’s been addressing the Inquisitor in a rather familiar manner in his letters, which we can do without at the ball. He asked for a memento of the marvels Trevelyan has seen on his travels.” Josephine smiled and pointed at the back of the room. “The spider is for him.”

The Trevelyans were indeed an old and large clan. It was a pity they hadn’t stayed relevant in Tevinter. Or good fortune, perhaps.

“Luckily, Bann Trevelyan herself has been a lot more willing to stay out of the spotlight. She has more to gain where trade agreements are concerned, and she will get more say in those in which the Orlesian Court is not explicitly involved.” Josephine paused. “I have arranged some long-term naval missions around Antiva for his father, and by proxy, his sister.”

“So no Trevelyans other than him at the ball at all?” Leliana picked a large page covered in nobles’ names connected by arrows of varying width. Over each of them were a few words summarizing a favor or an intrigue. “We will be there, you know. No need for him to learn the intricacies of every noble’s maneuvers.”

“It is better for the court to see the man rather than the family,” Josephine gave the paper a doleful look. “We wasted two hours with him yesterday going over the basics of nobles to remember. He was the most upset I’ve seen him at having to learn something. At the end of it he remembered nothing but three of them. Countess Lutetia, with whom he had already talked at length at Skyhold; Lady Drummond, who brought him as a present some board game with carved idols from Tevinter; Lastly, Countess Grantham, who is impossible to talk about without mentioning the affairs she has spun to plunge every political rival not just into misery, but into outright ridicule.”

Josephine finished filling the chamber of the pressurized kettle with coffee and put it over the fire.

“Interestingly enough he was the closest to remembering those rivals’ circumstances out of all the others, so now I am halfway through making a full list of the most outrageous scandals and how the people in them are interconnected. Then all that will remain will be to teach him to talk to them while dancing.”

Leliana laughed, loudly.

“You know, he made a flowchart of insults once, to compete with Sera. Still lost.” She smiled when Josephine took out an Antivan chocolatier’s box and made herself comfortable on the couch before she lifted the lid. A third of the chocolates _were_ missing. She took one and popped it in her mouth. “You worry too much, Josie. He doesn’t need to fit in well with the court. Quite the opposite, in fact. He will impress them more if he is not like them. Worked perfectly well for Aileas.”

“Amell was there after defeating an archdemon, and not in the middle of a mage rebellion. Not to mention she never buried a few hundred templars, some of whom family to those who will be at the ball. Nobody wanted anything from Amell, either.” Josephine shook her head. “We will need to be careful and do only as much as we need there. See that the peace talks go smoothly, prevent an assassination if it is to happen then.”

“I got in contact with Celene’s arcane advisor.” Leliana frowned slightly. It hadn’t been quite as demeaning as she had imagined it would be. Either some manners had rubbed off Morrigan, or she was interested enough in keeping her patron alive and well. She had certainly moved up at court. “She is quite adept at staying in the shadows and preventing assassinations, if it pleases her.”

“Is there an option to get a large number of invitation through her?” Josephine inquired, rather hopefully, it seemed to Leliana.

“We still don’t have enough?”

“Duke de Montfort quite happily provided the Inquisitor and myself with invitations. Madame de Fer did well for herself, as well as in acquiring an invitation for Cassandra. They are all personal invitations and certainly not enough. We need an invitation for the Inquisition, and at the moment I can only arrange for one from Duke Gaspard. It will not put us in the best light for Celene’s court.”

“Go for it,” Leliana shrugged. “We might have more to offer to Gaspard than to Celene, and the way the Game goes, one of them will likely be dead by the end of the piece talks.”

She helped Josephine get dressed while the coffee was brewing. Rather than sitting in front of the fire, Josephine brought some embroidered pillows near a low Antivan table, then took out another bowl of stained glass, this one dark. She didn’t seem in any way alarmed as she grabbed the lyrium-infused ring to bring it to the table, the wisp following close behind.

The bowl’s top was a deep blue, with a few more colorful splotches around the rim. It turned the room into a cloudy sunset once the wisp was sitting under it.

Leliana picked another chocolate and threw a pointed look, first at Josephine, then back at the box.

“Stop looking at me like that, Leliana. I gave him the ones with licorice, which you don’t like.”

“He was serious? Did they have salt on them as well? He actually _does_ like them?” Leliana had thought it just something Trevelyan had said in order to be contrary at the dinner table. “We have to keep this under wraps, Josie. Or get Dorian to publicly announce that they are not, in fact, magisters’ favorite candy.”

“Very funny,” Josephine scowled and continued adding sugar to her coffee for much longer than possibly necessary. “I had hoped things with Dorian wouldn’t move as soon as that. At least until after the ball.”

“You worry too much, Josie. Just play up Dorian’s pariah status a bit. People love a dashing rebel, and they will get two.” Leliana helped herself to another chocolate. She could eat those as fast as she wanted. They weren’t Aileas’s, those she had stretched and rationed over months, but even the last of them had been gone before Haven. “Although I’ve been thinking about spooking him just a little bit.”

“What were you saying about meddling?” Josephine’s scowl slid into a slight smile. “Of course, now that he knows about Amell, Dorian might not buy it.”

“Oh,” Leliana drawled, disappointed, “Trevelyan talked?”

“Actually, from what I hear, the Commander has been reminiscing over games of chess.”

“Then I must see to the rumor about me stabbing him. You know, the one Varric let loose.”

Josephine gave her the _disappointed look_ and got her to help with listing schemes and intrigues until late into the night.


	34. Magister et discipuli

Most people didn’t know how to address him. In all fairness almost nobody ever did. It hadn’t taken long before the templar had been gone from his door, replaced by two of the spymaster’s assassins. One of them an elf whose first words to him had been that she wasn’t his servant and to keep his hands where she could see them. They had ended up playing cards one long evening, and it had been Alexius who’d had to remind her, rather more dryly, about keeping hands easy to observe. He’d let her cheat back some of his winnings when the end of her shift had inched closer. The elf, Fletcher, had been back earlier the following day, to inform him that he had been granted permission to visit the shops, accompanied by her, and spend his money.

Somewhere between the lines had been the clearly understood promise of an arrow trained on him, or a dagger, both coated in magebane, should he attempt anything, but he had enjoyed the late afternoon walk. He hadn’t been taking many aside from late night trips to the bathing house. The stalls alongside the walls of the keep had been dedicated almost entirely to what passed for luxuries - deserts, souvenirs and even the occasional enchantment, with a few specialized in weapons and armor. The conversation surrounding his inquiry about more pressing supplies had made Alexius roll his eyes.

“Why would you want to buy a chicken?” Fletcher’s eyes had bored into his, trying to figure out the undoubtedly sinister plan that would involve a chicken. An elaborate glyph to hold the sauce as the meat simmered tender. Maybe the chicken had drawn it by itself, in the thralls of self-destructive blood magic. She had _seen_ the corpse of a chicken run around, she had told him then. Two of them, even, fighting, as a mage had stood by the side while people placed bets.

“A cock fight?” Alexius’s brow had drawn up. “That’s rather vulgar.” It couldn’t have been Dorian’s doing, unless the boy had been too drunk to care. It had been more than two full weeks since they had talked.

“It’s scary, is what it is,” the elf had scoffed before a more amicable expression had taken over. “The mages have some kitchens of their own. Most of the servants are too scared to have mage fire around. But I doubt you’d be welcomed there.”

“I am not really about to cook a chicken. It just seems there are too many people here and not enough animals for the all food that must be going around.”

“There are even more in settlements outside. Food is mostly handled there.” Fletched had looked uncomfortable. “But there is a market for these things in the other part of the courtyard. Not many fruits and vegetables this time of the year, the ambassador handles the foreign trade.”

“The rest of his fledging kingdom is not to your liking, I take it?” Alexius had prodded further and the elf had grown visibly more reticent. They had been on their way back to his quarters when Fletcher had returned to the topic.

“The Inquisitor is more accepting of elves than most… I guess the mages in general are. Skyhold is nice. The settlements are just a village filled with regular people.”

Fletcher hadn’t appeared to guard him again. She was on a mission, another guard had informed him, not failing to note how much better a mission was than his current task.

Alexius’s days dragged. Trevelyan was prone to disappearing for days, consequently so was the pursuit of examining rifts. Equipment was barely existent, limited to the crudest of measuring devices. Books had been mentioned, in conjunction with Dorian— who didn’t repeat his visit. Alexius caught him cross the courtyard from time to time, once again dressed in Tevinter style. It had been the Inquisition’s ambassador who’s personally come, in Trevelyan’s absence, to bring him an urn of ashes and word of Felix’s last will and testament.

He wondered if that was how it all ended, with the frantic desperation of years gone, leaving nothing behind.

* * *

_9 Haring, 9:41_

Rarely would one of his guards be a mage, and never both of them at the same time. Yet that was precisely the sight he walked out to when he had finished his dinner and the hammering from the room nextdoor hadn’t subsided. The man he had seen a few times before. Mid-thirties, a wide pale face currently occupied with a richly stuffed wrap of flatbread. He was wearing battle attire, and a well-worn one. The woman was quite the opposite of all that, narrow features and darker skin, something like a toga draped over her already entirely civilian gown. She didn’t look far into her twenties.

Both abandoned what they were paying attention to. The man put his dinner on the ledge he was sitting on, and the woman took a step away from the opened door to the neighboring room.

“Is there anything in particular happening tonight?” Alexius addressed mostly the woman. She didn’t look like one of the spymaster’s people, nor like an overseer of workers putting furniture together.

“Awkward, but I reckon no.” The men snickered and picked up the flatbread. It earned him a scowl from the woman, one he chose to ignore. When he bit into the food, muffled laughter made it halfway through.

Another series of hammering noises came from the room and Alexius weighted his options. He mostly avoided taking a walk while there was still some daylight, and the courtyard looked unusually full and busy. On the other hand he’d get away from the noise sooner rather than later.

“Will one or both of you accompany me on a short walk?”

“Trevelyan said he’d be stopping by,” the woman replied tartly, and the other mage snickered once again.

“He said he’d come by five, Lin. It’s half past six.” He looked at Alexius with inexplicable merriment. “Your former apprentice stirred up things today. Won me a nice pouch of coin.”

“Dorian?” The warmth and amusement Alexius felt were instinctive. “I don’t suppose it involved something like a cock fight?”

“In a manner of speaking, with a hen involved as well,” the woman spoke smugly, more rudeness than polished wit seeping through. Whatever was being referred, it made the man choke on his food and wheeze out yet another laugh before he gestured for Alexius to lead the way.

“I find it hard to imagine Dorian in a fight over a woman,” he turned to the man as they reached the steps down to the courtyard. “Unless it was indeed a bet, he always was rather fond of those.” 

“The bet was whether he was going to kiss Trevelyan first, or the other way around.”

This stopped Alexius with his foot mid-air as the other two mages passed him. He knew of the rumors, of course, they were the most common dessert in this place. Josephine, Cassandra, Leliana, Cullen, Dorian, Mother Giselle, Fiona, Chancellor Roderick, three arls, two counts, and some man named Philip.

“Which did you bet on?” Alexius asked once he made it to the ground to join the other two. He mentally placed his meager monetary wealth on Trevelyan.

“Pavus.” The man shrugged with a smile. “I know Trevelyan.”

Better than Alexius knew Dorian, it appeared.

“I’m Rion, by the way. And she’s Linnea. We were at Ostwick together with Trevelyan once.” His voice rose up as they cut into the crowded yard. It was Rion who set the direction and led them straight to the stairs to the ruined part of the battlements. On his way there Alexius heard quite a few mentions of “the Vint”, “the magister” and Tevinter, and he was quite sure none of them had been meant for him. Despite Rion’s relaxed attitude, he started worrying.

“Is Dorian in trouble for what he did?” He asked once they could hear each other’s voices again.

“Hardly,” Linnea promptly supplied. “Trevelyan can do no wrong.”

There was more annoyance than animosity in her voice, but it was enough for Rion to sigh in exasperation.

“He’s keeping his promise, Linnea. If you have so little faith, then you are free to go, you know.”

“I’d be off last week if I thought faith had its hand here,” Linnea snarled. “I’m not going to sit and ‘have faith’ in getting _some_ freedom when this is over. I’m going to take it.”

From the hammering, through a loud crowd and right into a quarrel. It seemed a quiet evening was out of question today. Alexius wandered to the edge of the hole in the ramparts as the spat continued and only turned to walk back when they’d gone back to mostly huffing and puffing.

“Maybe you should ask Sidony to take you with her when she returns to Nevarra.” Rion wiped his brow. “You sound quite like her, except for, you know, her sticking to quiet disdain.”

For all the strain the arguing appeared to have put on Rion, it was the woman who looked distressed.

“What is it that you want to do with the freedom you have now?” Alexius turned to Linnea, whose eye flew wide open at the question.

“I…”

“She wants what we all do, only she’s five steps ahead on where we are and five more to the side on how to get there,” Rion chipped in and Alexius raised a hand.

“Young man, you are imposing and noticeable enough without the need to be everywhere.”

“Just been getting used to lighter interaction lately. Things haven’t been that bad.” Rion shrugged and moved to the side. True enough, he looked relieved and calm once he was out of the conversation. “Maybe I’ll let you two get started on discussing the wonders of Tevinter.”

Linnea wasn’t hard to have a read on in a conversation. She wasn’t a mage of big talent, as she herself rather readily admitted, though she held a great deal of grudges against pretty much everything that might have led to her current state of mediocrity. Pretty much everything did actually mean pretty much everything, as in the Circle with everything and everyone in it, as well as the world outside that had forced her into it.

She was moderately upset with Trevelyan and what she saw as a rather gentle push for independence from him, equally upset with herself for not being good enough to be allowed on some of the spymaster’s missions, and perhaps most interestingly, only _somewhat_ upset with Alexius for failing to get her to Tevinter.

“At least Trevelyan is not hypocrite enough to fault me for it. He wouldn’t even give me the time of the day in the Circle, but now he said if I wanted to study…”

Linnea liked Tevinter, or the notion of it, even after Alexius explained to her things more truthfully than he had laid them out for the rebel mages in Redcliffe. She didn’t seem to have a particular ambition other than getting respect. It didn’t matter to her that she might have gotten stuck warming the water in some coffee house for ten years, she’d still get respect from the soporati. And, true enough, even beyond indentured service, even in slavery, mundanes didn’t keep their hands on mages.

The closer he got to asking about what she wanted right now, the less forthcoming she became, until she abruptly declared that they should be getting back to his quarters.

* * *

Despite him being way beyond fashionably late, Linnea turned out to be right about Trevelyan. He was sitting on the parapet in front of his room, taking notes from what a boy sitting next to him was saying. The boy was barely clothed and still seemed to be sweating profusely, his light brown hair darkened at least three fingers down from the roots. The workers had left, judging by the lack of hammering. 

Trevelyan was smiling at the boy, and after he noticed them and slid down from the parapet, he continued smiling. He kept it throughout his apology for being late, Linnea’s frown notwithstanding. Well, the kiss had been enthusiastically returned, Alexius had learned. Some mute question passed between the two former Circle mages, with Linnea barely moving his eyes, then Trevelyan picked back his smile where he’d left it.

“I see you two have met. Alexius, Linnea, this is Karolus. He arrived here a few days ago from down south.”

That probably explained the boy sweating like he did in Skyhold’s mild weather. Depending on how much further south Trevelyan meant, the child’s natural habitat might have been all ice, or close to it.

Alexius startled when Trevelyan introduced him as a former professor of thaumaturgy of the Minrathous Circle. He’d wager at least two of the the people in the conversation had no idea what that meant. He went with it anyway, as well as with the smell of sweat and with Trevelyan’s insistence that they talked inside. Inside turned out to have suffered some carpenters’ work as well, as the solid wooden table with three chairs around it attested. They sat around it, with Alexius pulling the chair from his desk to sit on.

“I have a proposal, Alexius. If you accept it, Leliana’s immediate guards won’t be needed in front of your doors.” Trevelyan looked at him, as if waiting for a ‘and if I don’t?’ Alexius thought about asking whether he’d still get to keep the table, just to throw him off.

“What would the proposal be?” He asked at last.

“You take on two apprentices. The two here, obviously. In a manner of speaking all three of you get to watch over each other.”

Linnea looked at him hopefully. The logic behind her apprenticeship was a bit twisted, but he understood where Trevelyan was coming from.

“What is special about the child?”

Karolus’s expression hadn’t changed much throughout the whole introduction and laying the matter at hand. Trevelyan’s smile, however, did falter.

“He has some circumstances,” he finally said. “Karolus, do you want to speak for yourself?”

“I need a place to stay.”

“Those are some extraordinarily rare circumstances,” Alexius said dryly. Surprisingly the child smiled at that, then shrugged.

“He used to live in the Korcari Wilds, at some distance from a Chasing village. His mother was a Chasind mage, his father a Fereldan apostate. Karolus is eleven, he has been a mage for six years.”

Alexius noticed the past tense in regards to the mother, and assumed it also applied to the father. The foreign magic would be what was special about the child. He had to admit to himself that he knew next to nothing about Chasind magic practices.

“After a Blight, further incursions by the darkspawn, a plague sweep this summer… the village is no more.”

Karolus nodded at the grim story as one nods at the facts of life and Trevelyan sighed before he continued.

“He moved north with some of those still alive, but unfortunately the first choice of career they picked was highwaymen. That didn’t go well with some of the local bann’s knights, some of the Chasind got killed, others scattered. The bann’s people got to Karolus eventually, but thought him an abducted Fereldan child, so they ‘saved’ him.”

“Father taught me Common,” the child appropriately announced.

“Can you read and write as well?” Alexius asked. He had made up his mind, even though in the past fifteen years he’d had no apprentices other than Dorian. At least the two he was getting were somewhat interesting.

“I can read, haven’t written much.”

“Well,” Alexius turned to Trevelyan, “unless there is something else, I think I can work with that.”

“There is,” Trevelyan replied gravely. “Karolus didn’t spend much time in the village they put him in. Two templars attacked when the battles started moving to Ferelden, he dealt with them. He fled to a cave, from whence he emerged to help a few of our people deal with a red templar.”

“You had me at ‘dealt with the templars’,” Alexius muttered. Linnea was staring at the child wide-eyed.

“He is a blood mage.”

Linnea gasped and Karolus shrugged in what seemed to be his usual manner.

“There was blood anyway.”

He did volunteer to take the word afterwards, albeit rather laconically. Using blood magic didn’t seem like a big deal to him, although he was aware of its status in more Andrastian lands. His parents had both practiced it, his mother, especially, in a shamanic way somewhere between binding spirits and animal necromancy. With the father remaining somewhat of an outsider, Karolus had ended up being one as well, when the Blight had claimed his mother’s life. Then the plague had taken away the father earlier in the year.

“You have outdone yourself, Herald,” Alexius laughed nervously and dragged a hand down his face. “The child knows more blood magic than I do, what would you have me teach him?”

“Obviously not blood magic. Look, there are few who wouldn’t yell ‘maleficar’ from the rooftops.” Trevelyan’s voice took a turn for the plaintive. “Teach him whatever you deem necessary for a mage to learn, especially one like him. Teach him not to use it on mind control and spirits. Watch that he doesn’t.”

“Trevelyan, look at him!” Linnea hissed. “He is normal, no demons, no nothing!”

“We confirmed so,” Trevelyan sighed. “But he grew up differently, and he learned it in a different way. I would rather not have you learn it either. Learn how to defend yourself against it, but I mean it. No mind control, no summoning.”

“Not even like in the Circle?”

“No,” Trevelyan said firmly. “No summoning, no Harrowing.”

“Inquisitor,” Alexius interrupted. “What happens if this fails? Does anyone else know?”

“Fiona and Leliana know. Rumors have been kept to a minimum, but just in case…” Trevelyan pulled two small envelopes from his pocket. “I still don’t know the whole situation in Ostagar too well. If Karolus has to go and he can stay there, that’s where we’ll take him. Otherwise we’ll try to look for another Chasind village and see if they will take him in. That might be what he decides to do anyway, he’s only come to stay with us for the winter, as of now.”

He handed the sealed envelope to Alexius and held the other one before Linnea.

“Linnea, for as long as Corypheus stands, this becomes valid solely in the event of my death. Assuming the world is still functional. We have some connections in Tevinter, hopefully better when that moment comes. They will arrange for a household and apprenticeship for you there, maybe shave off some of the indenture if it’s doable. If you decide you want to go.”

Linnea took the envelope gingerly.

“While you’re still here, do the best you can. Learn the language, pay attention to your studies… well,” Trevelyan turned to him again and Alexius realized the smile had been gone for quite a while.

“This is if you accept. I don’t have an envelope for your future.”

They’d had a talk about research at some point. It was slow and not full of miraculous revelations, as Trevelyan had come to learn and accept. In the meantime…

“This is acceptable,” Alexius conceded.

* * *

They talked some more, mostly accommodations. He’d have to clear half of the smaller room for Karolus, but Linnea would have her own next door. It seemed to be a perfectly acceptable substitute for Tevinter for now. Then someone’s stomach rumbled and Trevelyan went out to give some instructions to the scout, whose shift at the door would be the last one for the foreseeable future.

It was in the middle of a rather tasteful discussion of the history and origins of blood magic when a knock at the door led to three trays with dinner and dessert arriving at the table. A mix-up, perhaps, as Trevelyan explained. Too many people at Skyhold for everyone to get their dinner at the same time.

“Your Worship,” the servant turned to Trevelyan, “the Lady Ambassador is adamant about you appearing at the after dinner talks at the latest. There are two further meetings as well.”

Rather than hurrying to make it to the dinner itself, Trevelyan helped himself to Alexius’s redundant tray. The topic of accommodation returned, fortunately with the one of a bath in toe. Trevelyan was pretty skilled at the sort of management, it seemed. A bed for Karolus, clothes, allowances, studying utensils… he had obviously hoped, or even known, that Alexius would accept the offer.

He’d get to walk around the areas open to the public as long as he was being accompanied by either of his two apprentices, and could request a scout to escort him when that wasn’t possible. Like the one who trailed after them now, as Trevelyan had hurriedly explained that he needed to show him a few more things before he was needed elsewhere.

They walked quickly through some underground corridors until they reached a heavy wooden door.

“Dagna!” Trevelyan shouted and grinned at the dwarf fiddling with some crystal in the middle of the room. “Glad to find you here at this hour.”

The shouting was necessary due to the waterfall that seemed to make up for one of the hall’s walls. Dagna wasn’t new to Tevinters, and Alexius could swear her name wasn’t entirely new to him either.

“You are the one who managed the time warp, right? I have so many questions! It’s too bad you can’t do it again without the Breach.”

“I don’t think anyone really misses the Breach,” Alexius noted, quite light-heartedly, he thought.

“It was really pretty. In a… ‘destroy everything’ sort of way, but still.”

He knew where he’d heard of her, now.

“You’ve left a fair few magisters scared of what you think you can build.”

“Hah, I imagine so. Do you know Magister Tebrin? I got a letter from her apprentice that when he woke up to the Breach, his first thought was of me. ‘What has she done now?’ I don’t let their moaning get to me. So,” Dagna’s eyes glittered, “are we going to build something for time magic?”

“If you need something crafted for your research, then obviously you’ll need help,” Trevelyan said. “This is not an area open to the public, but the same rules apply for you here. Right now though we came for a staff or two.”

Alexius shook his head as he took his pick of weapons, one for him and a lighter one for Karolus, all the while Dagna chirping around the two of them about pretty things like the Breach and the hand-Anchor-mark. When they made it out to rejoin the scout, Trevelyan turned to him again.

“There is another place you can go to, but we’d have to cross the main hall for it. Karolus knows the way, he can show you tomorrow. It’s where some of your books are, and the rest of the room you can use for practice. Most of the mages practice on the ramparts, it’s up to you. Do you enjoy hunting?”

Alexius’s eyebrows lifted at the seemingly random question.

“Karolus will lose patience in this walled place. He is an excellent hunter, at least in his own words. With a bow,” Trevelyan chuckled, as if that was so outlandish. “Reward him with a hunting trip now and then, if you can. Leliana will pick the right people for the group. And don’t be too hard on Linnea.”

The scout took him back down the corridors as Trevelyan walked in the other direction to attend to his duties. 

_10 Haring, 9:41_

Alexius slid a hand over the spines of tomes once his. It was only a fraction of his former library, but Felix had chosen well. Those had been the right shelves to ship. His breath caught at the memories and a sigh staggered out a moment later. Suddenly he’d lost the desire to be close to his books, and that sentiment only intensified when he realized that they had been put on the shelves in the all too familiar order. It was like a fragment of days past— the shelves, Dorian and himself, all that remained after everything else had crashed down.

He straightened up when the door creaked open and quickly pulled out _Principia theoreticae magices_. He wouldn’t have had the most basic of encyclopedia on these shelves were it not for his notes on a few articles he had challenged.

Alexius turned around to usher the child out of the room and back down the stairs, and found himself facing Dorian instead, frozen there with a plate of pears in hand. The stunned expression held a moment too long. Dorian hadn’t known he was allowed in this room. 

“You’re teaching?” Dorian’s eyes wandered right away from his and to the book he was holding. “What a dull end of career for two brilliant scholars of the Minrathous Circle. I fully expect the Divine to proclaim us missionaries to the southern mages one day.”

The corners of Alexius’s lips lifted quite involuntarily. Dorian was the type attracted more to a singular challenger in the field of magic rather than a classroom full of mediocre students. Offering his tutelage to the lot seemed to be entirely out of character, yet it couldn’t have been forced upon him.

His deductions proved correct almost immediately, as Dorian grimaced, took a few quick steps to the table to drop the plate on it, then threw up his hands.

“It’s not like I could refuse a plea to teach mages to like their magic. The unfortunate outcome to that being that I got stuck semi-occasionally performing party tricks before a bunch of children.”

“He’s got you good,” Alexius chuckled, and when Dorian looked at him with uncertainty, softly added, “word travels fast.”

If anything, Dorian looked even more uncertain, the sneer and bravado evaporated in an instant.

“You know that has never bothered me. Nothing about you has, in fact.”

The reaction wasn’t subtle. Dorian pressed his lips together, the corners turning down, and his eyes misted over despite the couple of quick insistent blinks.

“Can we sit for a moment? Where are your guards?”

“My guard happens to be preoccupied with heroic hunting. He ran after a cat when the library failed to offer a worthy chase.”

The cryptic reply was much too unexpected for Dorian, whose distress flowed into a raised eyebrow and then a quick practiced flick of his fingers. A bottle flew out from a crate next to the door, followed by two glass beakers from a shelf filled with alchemical equipment. Given the apparent lack of proper goblets Alexius wondered if Dorian had intended on drinking straight out of a bottle, or perhaps on not drinking at all.

Alexius put the tome on the table while Dorian uncorked the bottle, then pulled a chair for himself. Dorian didn’t say a word as he got started on cutting the pears, only gesturing for Alexius to start speaking instead. He relayed the situation as lightly as he could, and was just about finishing when Karolus wandered in, out of breath, but proudly carrying a struggling fat cat as well as three newly clawed scratches across his cheek.

He took note of the pears rather than of Dorian, and made his way to the table, all the while attempting as well as he could to shuffle the cat to one arm only. The cat hadn’t gained anything in being cooperative, and the free hand that finally stretched to help itself to half a pear had gained scratches of its own in the meantime. Alexius switched to the common tongue.

“Karolus, this is Dorian. He is…” He had to look at Dorian at that, wondering whether he should only introduce him as a member of the Inquisition.

“I am an old friend,” Dorian quickly intervened, offering one hand to the child while the other pushed the drinks further back from the end of the table and the reach of the hissing cat. “As well as a former apprentice to Alexius. You won’t find a better teacher than him.”

Karolus had basic manners, and that was only the second most surprising thing after Dorian’s introduction and recommendation. He dropped the cat without much preamble and, quite like Dorian, reached with both hands. One to return the greeting and the other to grab another piece of pear. The manners didn’t extend as far as asking for permission or refraining from chewing as he spoke.

“Hello,” he swallowed and pointed at the book with the pear before he brought it to his mouth, “this our textbook?”

He bit into the pear with an expression matching that of someone biting into a lemon.

“No, not quite, Karolus.” Alexius hurried to reassure him. “This is something to help me along.”

The boy smiled in relief and, polite conversation apparently over, grabbed yet more fruit and looked around for the cat. There weren’t a lot of places to hide in the oval room, and the cat had wisely chosen the top of a shelf. Once all the pear was safely in his mouth, Karolus warbled a ‘goodbye’, spun around and ran toward the rows of books. Dorian visibly flinched and in the next moment the cat gave out a horrified meow as it was picked and held hovering at a safe distance from both child and books.

“Now, I know that even kings delight in hunting, but do try to clean your hands before getting close to those books.” Dorian wiggled the cat down to the floor, but didn’t let it run. “As a mage you can also employ a more diverse grabbing technique. As well as get some healing before your next hunt.”

Karolus huffed, wiped palms in his trousers and stared at Dorian defiantly. Even with the pear juices partly gone, the dust that had mixed with sweat and a few trickles of blood got nothing more than a disapproving _tsk_ from Dorian.

Alexius realized too late what was going to happen and the child cast surprisingly quickly and efficiently. Water splotched on the stone floor as Karolus rubbed his arms clean. Dorian had jumped from his chair with a curse to put a barrier in front of the bookshelf, and then had frozen still as Karolus tucked out the hem of his shirt to dry his hands. The cat got loose and ran toward the door.

The scratches were gone, the skin on his arms and his face was whole again, and Alexius hadn’t felt the smallest tug on the Veil, nor any flow of the Fade.

“It’s not a hunt if you just hold it there,” Karolus stated with a pout, then ran to the door and opened it. The cat ran through it and the child followed.

Dorian took a step back and slowly sat down.

“Someone is going to have a fit. Several someones, several fits, concurrent and consecutive.” Dorian’s worried look bored into Alexius before he let out a sigh that was half-growl. “Yet his decision might be the best one for those two. That’s so him.”

“Putting them next to a ruined Tevinter that nobody trusts?” Alexius sneered and picked the beaker of wine. He took a sip to fill the silence that followed. A surprisingly good white, even if it had come from a nameless bottle.

“Giving them a good teacher.” Dorian picked his own wine, but his eyes remained on Alexius. “I meant what I said. Perhaps it’s good for you too, though I doubt they’d be of any help with your research.”

Alexius didn’t remember in detail Dorian’s visit on the day he’d brought the news of Felix’s death. After Trevelyan’s recount in Haven there had been a sharp pain in his chest that had slowly dulled and settled into a crushing weight. The pain had returned, then, and Dorian’s angry words had simply sank in it, unprocessed. Yet the Dorian sitting opposite of him now was subdued, full of unease and melancholy.

“Dorian, I have to ask since your mood seem to be diagonally opposed to the Inquisitor’s. Do you have any misgivings about what’s been going on between you two?”

“Misgivings?” A practiced and easy smile danced on Dorian’s lips. “Why would I have misgivings? He has a crush and the object of that crush is ample proof that the man has taste. Him being so damn adorable about it all certainly doesn’t hurt.”

“Not the kind of adorable where one drunkenly propositions, I assume.” Alexius could only smile at the memory of how he’d discovered Dorian more than a decade ago.

“You never told me you thought _that_ adorable,” Dorian smirked, the cheek still there after all the years.

“Made me laugh, that’s all.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, drunkenly propositioning is precisely what he did. One of the things, anyway.” The way Dorian spoke, it didn’t appear that had been a laughing matter. Wine still untouched, he pushed the beaker to the side and stretched to pick up the encyclopedia and flicker through the pages. “It was a rather fitting location, mind you. Remote, just the two of us. A villa built by an arl for his swordsman lover, close enough to the main castle. With the arlessa’s blessing, too, the South being quaint as it is. I accidentally stumbled upon these details later,” he lifted eyes to look at Alexius once again, “or I might have felt compelled to oblige for the sake of honoring local customs.”

“You refused him,” Alexius couldn’t keep back a huffed laugh. “Is that what made him work harder for it? Rumor would have him pretty efficient about his conquests otherwise.”

“Let’s not get carried away with that,” Dorian snapped the book shut, loudly. “This is not Tevinter. He can have his pick, but it’s not like every second of it there are a dozen serving girls waiting to sit in his lap for a chance at an offspring with magic.”

“So, a proper crush then,” Alexius said quietly, startled by the outburst. “How do _you_ feel about it?”

“Stumped.” Dorian replied shortly, then picked up his wine. “I don’t know what he wants. It is hard to tell with him. It is… it is as if all of his life is happening to him at once. Childhood, adolescence, adulthood, and I can never say which one it will be next. I will make it good for him, if it comes to that. Just not at the price of losing him as a friend.”

“So you do have misgivings,” Alexius shook his head. “I just thought they would pertain to his position more than anything else.”

“The Lady Ambassador gave me the shovel talk for the organization a while ago. The spymaster - the rather more personal one. I would have expected their roles reversed, but Leliana has revealed herself as the one with the… modus operandi in matters of former Circle mages handpicked by destiny. She certainly knows what gifts he’d like,” Dorian ended on a rather sour note. “Which reminds me, I am going to contraband myself some things from Tevinter. If you need anything…”

“I am good,” Alexius smiled, surprised at the offer.

“Not even some proper textbooks for your charges?”

“I think it’s better I prepare those materials myself. You could get him some books though.”

Dorian lifted a quizzical eyebrow and glanced at the bookshelves lined with Tevinter books.

“Those are beyond him in both subject and language, and more basic ones would be a waste of his spare time. Of which admittedly he doesn’t seem to have much. I meant books on Tevene, and I doubt the spymaster would indulge him there.”

“You think I should get him a grammar book?” Dorian gave him a skeptical look.

“Not a vulgati one, obviously. Proper Tevene, the way he’d read it in one of these books.” Alexius considered. “And not one made for the laetan either.”

“Even though those are the more practical ones, and meant for adults,” Dorian noted.

“Indulge me, if you will. Get him the hand-painted ones for alti children.”

Dorian laughed, perhaps for the first time a genuine light laughter.

“I will think about it. Wonder if he can sneak Tevene declensions in between Orlesian politics, moldy villages and dancing lessons.” He stood up and slid the tome back to Alexius. “Your valiant hunter is still not back. Do you want me to escort you to your quarters?”

“Dorian,” Alexius’s voice faltered as he realized he was about to bring up Felix for the first time today. “The estate is yours now, at least for as long as your friend can keep it from relatives laying a claim. Felix’s childhood textbooks are in a red chest, the one with a painted chariot, in his old room.”

He pulled the tome to himself and remained seated as the seconds stretched.

“I can wait for Karolus here.”

“I saw my father,” Dorian suddenly said.

“Here?”

“Of course not. Magister Pavus couldn’t come to Skyhold and be seen with the dread Inquisitor. What would people think?” Dorian’s scoff was embittered, and it stung when he added, “he thought he was saving me too.”

Alexius had caught news of the scandal, it had been too big to miss even as he had withdrawn from more trivial social events. Halward Pavus had been forced to step down on his position on the consiliare for the Archon after the excess of debauchery Dorian had made himself a name for.

“Your house was a true home to me for many years. I may be disowned, so perhaps one day I will make a home of it again.”

Dorian took a step back and nodded, almost a slight bow.

“I wish everything could be like it once was, I’m sorry I didn’t try hard enough to stop you when you needed me.”

“You didn’t owe me that, Dorian. I am grateful that you didn’t share my fall.”

“I owe you so much.” Dorian looked at him, miserably, and sighed. “I will send Karolus up if I meet him. Be careful with them, Alexius.”

Alexius nodded and took a blank sheet of paper from a stack on the table. He started writing down ideas for his lessons before Dorian had made it out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is Latin for "Teacher and Students".


End file.
